Heavenly : Deadly
by Pipe Fox
Summary: Avarice. Faith. Fortitude. Justice. Gluttony. Prudence. Sloth. Lust. Charity. Envy. Temperance. Anger. Pride. But most of all, hope.
1. Fortitude

I.

Fortitude

Something inside him dies to see her hate. And she does hate, at least that's what she says. She hates everything he ever touched. This apartment, this relationship and him.

He listens sedately.

The doors slam, the walls tremble, a glass something shatters into a million pieces. Her ring drops, echoes on the wooden floor.

He waits outside, his fingers clenched, lifted to the door with the knock he never delivered.

Inside, their voices thunder.

"Leave!" she screams, "Don't come back!"

His ears pound with guilt. He shouldn't hear this, he shouldn't be here at all. But she asked him to stay. So he stays.

"I'm changing my cell phone!"

"I wouldn't call!"

The door flies open.

"You are so _selfish!_" Daisuke does not see him just yet. He struggles with his shoes, twisted awkwardly to face her, "You don't know what you want, so try to have it all!"

"Fuck you!" Hikari's voice rattles through the foyer.

"No, fuck _you_, Hikari!"

Then he sees him.

"Oh." Daisuke's expression contorts. All the violence, the anger pent up in his face, cracks. He gives him a faltered look. "I…Takeru…"

He takes a few unsteady steps forward, forcing on his shoes,

"Sorry…" He says, slips past him, disappears quickly down the hallway.

Takeru does not watch him go. If he had planned on coming back, he definitely would not now.

"_Shitsure shimasu…_"

He steps into the foyer, notices the broken something, a porcelain hinaningyo, in three pieces on the floor, sees her facing the window. Outside, the afternoon is dying into night and its elegy of colors makes her glow golden, like an idol for his eyes.

"Hikari…"

Her shaking stops, she turns to face him and it's affirmed there, that flicker of misdirected hatred burning holes right through him. And then, as it had so many times before, it dampens away, a paper thing sinking into water, and she is helpless and beautiful before him.

Tears, ones that refused to fall in the face of adversity, drip from her eyes.

"I'm…I'm so sorry, I forgot you were…" she wipes her eyes roughly, "It…it sounded worse in here than…"

Seeing her there, he feels something both strange and familiar stirring inside of him. He looks down in denial of it, collects the figurine pieces from the floor and lays them on the counter. In that time, she composes herself, smoothes her hair and blouse, puts her hate back into its secret place.

He looks at her expectantly and her renewed veneer is immaculate. She smiles her brave smile and he pretends to believe her when she says,

"I'm fine now. I'm going to be fine."

How much of this she believes herself, even he doesn't know. She will probably never tell him.

In the end, she asks if he ate on the flight and he says no, so she suggests they get an early dinner. It is between this time, when she excuses herself to freshen up and he sees the near-invisible desperation behind her eyes, that that peculiar feeling resurfaces.

He is sitting alone; evening has laid the sun to rest, the faucet runs behind the bathroom door. And he knows that he loves her all over again. All the pain, all the years he spent healing from the last time means nothing in front of her; you're caught up before you can remember why you left at all. Her presence, her very being is like hypnosis –Takeru is harrowingly familiar with the subconscious desire to return to her lucid spell, how easy, how effortless it is to love her. Never mind the bad times, loneliness, inevitable suffering. It was never a question of "if" –only "when".

"You cut your finger."

Hikari returns, and so like her to notice such an insignificant thing, the blood pooled on his finger. He calls it for the nothing it is, idly sucks the blood away. It tastes stale and sweet; the prick of Cupid's arrow.

It's not something to fear or loath; it's only a show of thriving humanity. It will be difficult, this manifest love. He can foresee sacrifices, misery, many, many tears. He does not care. He is blind again. Yet, despite all appearances, nothing has ever seemed clearer.

**Disclaimer**. Tragically, I don't own Digimon.

Notes:

_Shitsure shimasu_

Roughly translates to, "Excuse me, I'm being rude." It can be used in a myriad of situations; in this case, Takeru uses it when entering the apartment without permission.

Only one note? Gasp!

I've been wanting to write a takari for a while. Hopefully, with time, this story will lighten a bit, since it seems a bit heavy for me now.


	2. Sloth

II. Sloth

Once upon a time, two frogs lived in a small pond deep in the valley of Kamo Mountain. Now the air was cool and the days were long, and the two frogs had nothing more to do than lie with their bellies up, watching clouds make shadows on their skin. They hopped together, ate flies together, their voices croaked as one. And they were very happy.

But the weather changed one day and the rains began to fall, and when it did not rain, the sun bore too heavily upon them; the muggy air throttled their throats.

Why, asked one to the other, do we no longer hop together as we used to?

The other sharply replied, You would have me hop when I can barely breathe in this place?

Embittered by such conditions, the frogs grew intolerant of each other. They left their pond, hopping in different directions through the high mountains, to another world where they could no longer see where they had come from.

To each their own, they found new ponds and new frogs, and the days were mild, but not as long. The flies were sweet, but not so satisfying. And while pride prevented their return, the frogs on separate sides of the mountain often gazed in a common direction and could not remember why they left. Whatever happened to their pond, its cool hours and long days? Their young idle existence?

Some time passed and one day, while traveling, the two frogs once again encountered each other. Too lost in happiness to find past anger, they reminisced of their days some several seasons ago when life was better.

Have you been to our old pond, one asked, since we left so long ago?

No, replied the other, not since that day.

Neither have I, replied the first. Why, we should return, for old time's sake!

Taken up by the apparent brilliance of their idea, the two frogs hopped as fast as their legs could propel them, through the mountains and deep into the valley where, true to their memory, their old pond lay in its perfect stillness.

Taking once more to the waters, they spread their limbs and stretched out. But they found, much to their confusion, the weather no more pleasant than anywhere they had been. The days not so long as before. The flies not as savory as they used to be. They tried to hop together, to sing their old songs, but were mistuned, out of sync.

And they were not happy.

Now, what do you think is the moral of the story?

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Digimon.

Notes:

1) Kamo Mountain (I think) is somewhere in modern day Shimane, the countryside! On a completely random note, Yama and TK's grandma lives there.

2) There is, incidentally, a Japanese folktale about two foolish frogs. Gotta credit it for partial inspiration. Sort of.

Sorry about the cheater chapter. There's a lot going on in here that will probably not be explained later. Sorry. This is the eightieth draft at least and finally, I am satisfied with this one. I'm all caught up in school and work, so I have to try extra hard from now on! Yah, thanks for reading.


	3. Prudence

III. Prudence

Don't try to control the weather, her father told her, just bring an umbrella.

June rain streaks the morning gray windows and from her bed, she watches their thousand erratic sojourns, unwilling or unable to rise. She was never the type to find comfort in rain so early; her mind recalls, with uncomfortable clarity, a similar gray morning where, with sleeping eyes and warm hands, Daisuke pulled her back to bed.

Seven days of serious contemplation and Hikari has little to show for her efforts. She flexes her arms, examining the parallel impressions of sheets wrinkled into her skin. Seven days, her subjects would not photograph themselves and the garbage had begun to smell a little bit.

She lies on her back and counts off.

One. Daisuke is right. She is selfish, only wants some_thing_, not some_one _to fill the apartment.

Two. Their relationship was not meant to last. He needed too little or she wanted too much, and they had dived forward the both of them already wanting out. Hikari knew this, but at the time cared little for consequences. Now, regret lies heavy inside her like swallowed stones.

Her fingers curl into themselves, her eyes fight sleep weighing her eyelashes. Her empty stomach growls, flat and soft from too much ramen.

Three. She misses his clothes lying everywhere, the play fights for the remote control, his voice next to her ear, whispers of sleeping nonsense. And for all that time she spent thinking she could never love him when they were together, my god, didn't she miss his presence there. Around her or inside her, everything is empty now.

The phone rings and she opens her eyes. It flashes sweetly from across the room, echoing a song she'd meant to change for months. Hikari gazes back towards the window, determined to sleep for a while longer. It's Saturday, or maybe it's Monday, but either way she deserves to rest.

The ringing stops. No message.

There is a fleeting silence in the room before her stomach growls again. Hikari works her feet onto the floor and stands, all the blood rushing to her feet. She takes a moment to balance, resolves to make herself an egg. The open window exposes her bare legs to sunlight, thin and naked underneath her nightshirt. Robe nowhere to be found, she meanders into the kitchen; the open balcony chill sends goose bumps up her arms.

It is empty, but not so very different. She pulls two eggs from the refrigerator, leftover rice, a container of miso soup. She stalls, replaces the second egg with a strange resentment. She cracks the other in the pan, scoops the rice into a bowl, the miso into a cup, shoves both into the microwave. Her mind wanders to the garbage before a knock from the door jars her thoughts.

She stands undone, starring towards the foyer.

The door rattles again.

Hikari takes a few steps forward, rubbing her arms.

"Who is it?"

"It's Miyako! Open the door!"

Hikari complies.

Miyako, in a brown rain coat and knit hat, shakes out her umbrella.

"You didn't answer your phone. Were you napping?"

"No, I was just making breakfast."

"Breakfast? At two o' clock?"

Hikari blinks, frazzled, but Miyako has turned her attention to her shoulder bag.

"Anyway, I'm not dropping by unannounced. I just came to return your umbrella."

"Umbrella?"

"You leant it to me, remember?"

This time, Hikari's wide stare merits a sigh in her companion. She takes the blue umbrella, neatly folded, and places it firmly in her hand.

"Go back to bed, okay? You look flushed." She inhales swiftly, "And take out your garbage."

"Okay, okay. Thanks, Miyako."

"I mean it. I'll call you later, okay? Bye!"

Flicking her purple hair over her shoulder, she trounces back down the hall and Hikari closes the door after her, sighing. She makes her way back towards the kitchen, bundling the garbage underneath the sink when the door resound again. She sighs, sweeping her hair back swiftly before opening the door.

Takeru takes a startled step back.

Hikari stares, somewhat surprised herself.

"Oh, Takeru. I thought you were Miyako."

"I passed her in the hall. She said you weren't answering your phone, so…"

She stares a moment longer before her manners register.

"Oh, please, come in."

He nods, stepping past her into the foyer and working off his shoes.

"I was just making breakfast er, lunch." She says, "Do you want some tea?"

"No, thanks." He stares strangely, "I brought yakitori from the convenience store. Have you been eating?"

"Of course." She says, sitting on the couch, "Mostly ramen, but…"

He moves from the foyer into the kitchen.

"Hikari, are you making eggs?"

"My egg!" She leaps up, "I forgot! Is it burned?"

"Ah, no, it's fine." He peeks around the wall, smiling softly, "You didn't turn on the skillet."

Hikari stands embarrassed as he makes his way from around the kitchen wall.

"I'll make something. Why don't you get dressed?"

She feels, finally, the sway of the nightshirt high against her thighs and blushes.

Once inside the bedroom, door pressed shut, her legs stop shaking. She looks at the closet, perusing from a distance before selecting a plain white blouse and blue jeans. She dresses, catching a glance of herself in the mirror with a little surprise at how much weight she's already lost. She brushes her hair, applies a little lip gloss. Attempts to smile. There, not so tragic looking.

When she opens the door, Takeru is already setting the yakitori and miso on the table.

She nods wordlessly as he pulls out her chair. Her stomach leaps at the scent of food, fingers shivering with her chopsticks.

"Takeru, _doomo_."

He shakes his head. "You shouldn't go without eating."

"I've just been…tired." She says between mouthfuls, hunger filling the gaps of etiquette as she ravages her rice and soup. "All the sleep I've missed is catching up to me."

"You don't have to make excuses." His voice seems simple, understanding.

She pauses over the yakitori, staring across the table.

"I'm not." She says ultimately, taking one bite, two, stopping. Suddenly, she's lost her appetite.

"I'll save the rest." Hikari makes to stand. But the blood in her head rushes downward; she grasps the table and, in an instant, Takeru is there beside her. His sudden nearness is too familiar and too strange. _It's too soon!_ her heart is screaming, but her mind doesn't know why.

"Are you okay?" She shivers warily, looks at the floor as his palm flattens against her forehead. "You have a little fever."

He bends down; his gaze finds her hiding in the hardwood, and she finds herself swept into his stare. Those clear eyes, streaming effortlessly through her facades and words to the precipice of her insecurities, her love. Daisuke, he could never tell what she was thinking about. But Takeru…

A tear dribbles down her cheek.

"I'm fine." She whispers, and wipes it away before he has the chance. "I think it's just the weather."

"The weather…" He echoes. She realizes she's taken his arm unconsciously and now uncurls her fingers, takes a step back.

"Did you drop by for any reason?"

"I had some time to kill before an interview…" He watches her closely, "I…should probably get going, though…"

"Go." She says, trying to sound cheerful and strong, "I'll get some rest and call you later."

For all her own transparency, he can't hide the skepticism in his expression from her. She nudges him, "Go."

He nods.

"Alright. Eat some more. I'll call."

She follows him to the foyer where he slips on his shoes, opens the door.

"Good luck."

"Hm?"

"The interview?"

"Oh. Right. Thanks."

His gaze lingers as he finally turns, traverses the hallway. Hikari closes the door, her mind heavy, as if that little display sapped all strength left in her. She peeks into the kitchen, where Takeru has disposed of the ramen bowls, washed the dishes. Even the garbage has been taken out.

And where Daisuke is the epitome of imperfection, then Takeru is perfection itself, the embodiment of good and order in a universe where only chaos can exist. He walks this earth, giving so much of himself, but (and again she is selfish for never before wondering) who gives of themselves for him? What does he get in return?

Her head throbs painfully now and she finds her way to the couch, spreading her limbs out across the cushions, the dull gray streams of sunlight cast, which provide no warmth, yet some comfort. She closes her eyes and has a dream: she is brushing her hair in the mirror, her reflection stares mutely back. Then,

"You know, he's in love with you." It says.

"I know." She says back.

"Do you?"

Hikari puts the brush down. "Daisuke has always been in love with me."

"Not Daisuke." Her reflection says, a coy smile curving around its lips as it steps away, out of sight.

When she awakes, cloud cover has darkened the afternoon sky. The open balcony blows a wet chill through the apartment, kissing the floor with wandering raindrops. Hikari sits up, feeling very warm and disoriented.

"Not Daisuke…" Her mouth whispers.

Those words race out, spill into her ears, but in the next instance, like film exposed, the dream and all its secrets vanish.

**Disclaimer:** Tragically, I don't own Digimon.

No notes today, I'm tired. Winter break is almost here, so I might update more, or I might not because I'm an unmotivated whore. Eh, what can you do? --Artemis


	4. Gluttony

IV. Gluttony

Of course, Takeru does call and they meet for dinner that night, the first of many regular Monday evenings spent together in the comfort of each others' company. Hikari calls it "companionship training". She works, answers her phone regularly, and meets Takeru on Mondays. Normalcy resumes its place.

"Daisuke called." She says, smiling. "It's been five weeks."

Takeru hesitates for a moment too long, and the croquette slips through his chopsticks.

"How do you feel?" He asks, finally.

"I feel fine." Her tone is subtle, either confident or unsure.

He blinks carefully, trying to distinguish between them. "What did he say?"

"He told me I could keep his MONO CDs, he doesn't want them."

"That's all?"

She nods. "Mmm."

He frowns dubiously. "I don't believe you."

"I'm telling the truth."

"What did you say to him?"

"I'd already thrown them out; they were my CDs to begin with."

Her smile transforms from brave to cheeky, and Takeru rolls his eyes.

"I think you have a little complex."

"Maybe I do." She says.

Soon, there are two parts of her regular week: Monday, and every other day. She outlines it with school girl attention in her planner, and the photo shoots begin to drag around four o' clock, two hours before they meet. She's looking full and healthy again. She goes shopping and buys herself a nice dress to wear.

Takeru smiles when he sees her.

"Are we celebrating?"

"No, it's just a regular day."

She finds herself ordering more appetizers, trying new things. She orders dessert each time without fail, even when she's not hungry. They'll stay at the restaurant for hours, late into the evening. Hikari returns home pink-faced from three nursed cocktails and tiramisu. Things are the way they were before he moved away. Seven weeks have passed, and she hardly thinks of Daisuke at all.

"What are you looking for, exactly?" Miyako asks. Her fingers thread through a rack of expensive clothes, grazing the price tags in dismay. The boutique is quiet for a Saturday.

"I'm not really sure." Hikari replies. She plucks a linen frock from among the clothes and holds it against her, "Do I have something like this already?"

"I don't remember. You've bought lots of clothes lately."

"I've been bored with everything I own." She lays the frock over her arm and continues to peruse, "It's just time for a change."

Miyako's mouth turns a bit coy. "Just when things are back to normal?"

Hikari looks at her confusedly. "What do you mean?"

Her friend shrugs casually. "Nothing."

"Miyako…"

"I like this one." She pushes a backless dress towards her. "You should wear it on Monday."

"Why Monday?" Slowly though, Hikari frowns. "It's not like that."

Miyako's eyes gloss over with innocence, "Who says it is?"

"Miyako…"

She grins, "_Ganbatte_, ne?"

"Is that so…" says Hikari with forced nonchalance. She moves through the boutique with renewed interest, and Miyako follows a rack behind alight with mischief.

"Not that it's my business." Her friend whistles sweetly.

She doesn't answer immediately. Then she says, "This dress is too fancy."

But five minutes later, she takes it to the counter for purchase.

Monday evening, there is a knock at the door and Hikari, wearing the backless dress and long earrings, finds Takeru standing behind it.

"What are you doing here?"

"I got off early, so I thought I'd catch you."

She steps back as he slides off his shoes.

"I'm not ready yet."

He smiles thoughtfully. "You like nice."

Her stomach throbs inside of her at the words and she manages a small thank you, less embarrassed now for dressing up as she returns to the bedroom. He trails her to the door and lingers there.

"Are we going somewhere special?"

"Not really." She says, doing a once over in the mirror. She removes the earrings. "Did you have somewhere special in mind?"

"Not really."

He watches in silence. Her eyes find his in the mirror and a little smile plays up to her face.

"What?"

He starts a little, shrugs, backs out of sight.

Her fingers pause and, with another glance in the mirror, refasten her earrings.

Takeru has a tie in his bag, so they decide to try something new, a place called Michael's across town. Hikari orders a roasted artichoke to start. A Chinese cabbage soup. Roasted lamb with apricot glaze. And dessert, too, soufflé.

They are in the middle of it, debating playfully about who will cover the check, when Takeru's cell phone rings in his pocket.

He checks. "No ID."

"Answer it." Hikari slides her chair back, "I have to powder my nose."

He nods, and his warm smile makes her insides blush.

In the bathroom mirror, Hikari attempts to suck in her stomach, plump and full with the evening's meal. It's no use though.

"I ate too much," She smoothes the front of her dress, "I wasn't even that hungry…"

"Conversation and company." An older woman in a silk shawl ambles toward the sink. Hikari blushes. She hadn't realized she was talking aloud.

"Good company makes a bottomless stomach, as a rule." She carries on, washing her wrinkled hands. "And a fine conversation makes dinner last for hours."

Her face folds into a smile. "The most important things in the world, you know, are love and a good meal. How often they are related."

Hikari smiles politely and bows, and the woman bows cordially in response before leaving the bathroom. Then she looks at herself in the mirror again. That dream.

_Not Daisuke._

But what about me?

Her heartbeat flutters up and afraid of it, she rumbles through her purse for her compact.

When she returns to the table, Takeru sits with a tight expression on his face.

"Who was on the phone?"

He hesitates. "No one."

Then, "Someone from work."

Inside of her chest, her heart stills oddly.

But on the outside, she only nods.

Dessert tapers off in the next ten minutes over a relative silence, and Takeru picks up the tab.

Usually, he walks her home but,

"I'm going this way tonight." He says without further explanation, asks whether she'll be okay to go home and of course she will, she replies. Goodnight.

At home, she takes off her earrings, the backless dress, her makeup. She stares in the mirror, thinking about the phone call and her insides twist up and her heart goes still.

"It obviously wasn't someone from work, so…"

Jealous? Her reflection inquires.

"Of course not."

The mirror only returns her unsure expression.

Later that night, Takeru meanders into a café looking exceptionally grim. His eyes scan for his companion whom he finds rather easily, slouched in a booth over an iced coffee.

He sits. "Hey."

"Hey, it's been a while."

Takeru orders an iced coffee for himself. They sit in silence.

Then, "So Takeru…what's up?"

"You called _me_." He says, "You said you needed my help."

"Did I?" Daisuke half-smiles, oddly, fiddling with his straw, "I guess I did."

Again, they fall silent.

Takeru is losing his patience.

"Say what you need to say or…"

"I want Hikari back."

All words skip out of Takeru's mouth, and he only stares.

Daisuke runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "I'm going crazy. I just…I need you to help me."

His coffee sits, untouched. "Help you?" He echoes.

"Help me get her back."

Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon.

I'm so lazy. Sorry this took me forever. Um, MONO is a Japanese band, as well as a virus. _Ganbatte_ means "go for it!" or "do your best!" That's about it. Thanks for sticking with me ♥


	5. Envy

V. Envy

* * *

"I've always been jealous of the middle-aged." Hikari says, taking another sip from her bottle. 

Another Monday evening, this time spent at a small, trendy restaurant underneath an overpass. Takeru reaches for his beer but his attention is focused on Hikari, casually styled, a new necklace with a jade pendant dangling dangerously beneath her collar bone.

"The middle-aged?" He grins, "But there's so much more to covet in the awkward teenage years. The passion, the acne… And what about the elderly!"

"No, it's the crisis I'm looking forward to" She giggles, already pink faced, "I mean, how often do you have the chance to blame frivolous spending on a hormonal imbalance?"

He laughs.

"I mean it! I'm sad I still have nearly fifteen years to go." She takes another sip of her beer, "You –what do you think you'll do? You could move to Tahiti, buy an expensive sports car…"

"I could probably do that already." He says. His eyes find the necklace again then, finding hers bright with suspicion, he returns quickly to the menu.

"Or," Her smile is impassive, "you could take a young mistress."

He pauses a heartbeat, then reaches again for his beer. "I could do that."

"Maybe I'll take a lover myself." She says. The server brings a dish of sizzling green curry and she stares at it, appetizingly. "Someone motor-cycle riding hotshot. It's not unheard of."

A peculiar feeling knots in his stomach again. But he forces himself to smile and, "Ittadekimasu," breaks apart his chopsticks.

* * *

The evening transpires finally, after dessert and coffee. It's decidedly too cold to walk to the metro so they share a taxi instead; winter crept upon them so quickly. Already, driving through the back streets, shop fronts have hung Christmas lights. 

The taxi pulls up to Hikari's apartment and he pays ("But you paid for the meal," she argues) and walks her to her door. She leans on the rail, brushing her hair behind her ears.

"Two beers and I'm already dizzy. I'm such a lightweight."

The doors open. She reaches into her bag, fiddling idly with the keys.

"You know, you don't have to walk me to my door every time."

"I missed last week, so I felt obligated."

"Oh, well if you were _obligated_…"

She finds her door and stops, hanging slightly on the doorknob.

"I hope you don't feel obligated to eat out every Monday." Her eyes, glossy with alcohol, take on a serious cast. And she folds her lips in such a way that Takeru feels his dinner twist in his stomach, "It's been…I can't even remember how long it's been since…"

For a moment, she looks a little lost. Not a drunken loss, either, but a loss that comes with sadness close on its heels. Then she smiles, and the whole of it disappears.

"I'm fine, if you're worried about me."

Takeru shrugs, almost meditatively. "I like the company."

"_I_ like the company." She says, giggling a little bit and leaning dangerously on the door. He grins –she really is a lightweight.

"Anyway, thank you." A beat. Hikari realizes that the door is still locked and makes with opening it. "Do you want some coffee or…"

He shakes his head. "I'm still feeling the last cup."

The door opens finally. Halfway between the foyer and the hall, there is some awkward and unnecessary silence. Finally, he takes a step back.

"I'll stop by later this week, maybe. So, goodnight."

"Goodnight." But instead of turning away and retreating into the foyer, she takes a step or two forward. Her fingers shut the door behind her.

He feels a strange emotion surge through his body, directing hatred towards his arm where her fingers rest. He feels it spreading all the way into his fingers, fighting his resistance to grab her. She takes a step closer. He feels her closeness pressing all the air out of his lungs and clouding his eyes, making it difficult to see at all.

And, realizing the whole of this lasted less than three seconds, he feels it threaten to kill him when she just as suddenly steps away. Her hand grasps desperately at the doorknob and she looks between him and the other as though she's been wounded.

"I'm sorry, I…I shouldn't…I _can't_, I…"

She clumsily lets herself in. "Goodnight."

The door closes, leaving the whole of him immobile at her doorstep. His still hands tremble, invisible, underneath his skin, and his head throbs.

Somehow, though, he manages to go back to the elevator and start on his way home.

* * *

Ten minutes later, outside of his apartment, Takeru sees a familiar silhouette slouched on a park bench. His insides, still wounded from her closeness, now shiver as he walks toward him. 

"Hey." He says.

Daisuke looks up, "Hey."

He makes to stand but Takeru takes a seat beside him, leaning back. Daisuke resumes slouching.

"It's funny," He says, after a moment, "I went to your old apartment first, without even thinking about it."

"That is funny."

"Your place here though, it's nice. Real classy."

"Thanks."

Takeru senses him skipping around the question he wants to ask, very unlike his former self. In his pocket, he can feel his cell phone vibrate, but he has neither the will nor desire to answer it.

"I talked to Hikari, tonight."

Daisuke's brown eyes light with interest. "Yeah?"

Inside of him, his organs feel like they're going to tear themselves apart. _What are you thinking, _they ask. He feels his tongue inadvertently trying to bite the words down, but,

"I'll help you, if I can. I still don't know what you want me to do though."

A wave of relief washes over Daisuke's face, "Really?"

_If you say anything more_, his insides threaten him. But Takeru pays no heed, "Yeah."

His emotions are not soothed at all by his companion obvious struggle to remain unsentimental. Daisuke nods vigorously, brushing the back of his sleeve across his nose. Maybe he is still the same person, after all.

Takeru worms in his seat to fight off the rebellion inside his head.

"So now that I'm going to help you, what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know." Daisuke leans back, cramming his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt, "When I think of it though, I'll ask you."

Some things never change. Takeru laughs despite himself but feels, in the same moment, overwhelmingly sad. He takes it as his cue to retire.

* * *

Opening the door to his apartment, finally, the first thing he notices is the flash of the answering machine. He shuts the door, pulls his coat and shoes off, then resolves that he needs coffee after all. He hits the play button on the way to the kitchen. 

"Takaishi-san, it's Hara from Musashi Publishing…"

He pours a cupful of water into the kettle and sets it on the stove. Maybe tea would be better.

"Takeru, it's Hikari."

His stomach drops significantly and he pauses, straining to listen.

"You didn't answer your cell phone. I thought you'd be home by now. Um, I'm really sorry about what happened tonight at the door –and don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about. I just, I don't know what came over me. It's your fault really, for letting me drink, hah…"

He moves to the couch and sits. Even his ears burn.

"Anyway, I thought maybe we could get lunch this Thursday. It might be a nice change from our regular Monday thing. So…yeah, call me later, promise? Bye."

The words echo through the apartment for what seems like hours but the kettle screams from the kitchen suddenly, starting him from his thoughts. He goes, removes the kettle. Its cry withers.

The phone rings while he is pouring dredges of green tea into the cup. He glances up briefly, finds himself again unwilling to answer, and glances down.

His mind wanders leniently back to his conversation with Daisuke. _What are you going to do now_, it asks.

"Nothing." He says.

The phone stops ringing finally, followed by the electronic voice of his answering machine.

It beeps. The tiny green light flashes, recording.

An inhale. He thinks he recognizes her voice. Then,

Click.

Takeru takes his tea across the room to the study. But in the near darkness, that awaiting message is the only thing he can see. It spoils his thirst. He drinks half, leaves the rest in the sink, retreats to bed.

_Maybe in the morning_, he tells himself and wonders, vaguely, if the morning would ever come.

* * *

Thirteen buildings away, Hikari sets down the phone and reluctantly wipes her eyes.

She fidgets, then sits on her bed. Lays down. Sits up again.

Her eyes find her cell phone, where even with the dimly-light screen she can still read his text message.

I need to see you. Please? –Daisuke

It's the "please" that throws her. She lies flat on her bed again, putting her arm over her eyes.

_Not Daisuke_, her mind echoes.

She covers her face with her hands but shivering, thinks she can see it creeping through the space between her fingers.

What would Takeru say, her drifting mind wonders, and begins to feel calmer. He would tell her to relax, not to answer until she was more rational and certainly less drunk. They would sit without words (she had always wished she could do that –his ability to communicate understand without saying anything at all) and she would feel better, and the answer would suddenly come to her and everything would be solved.

But would it really be?

Hikari stands with some effort, takes the cell phone and sets it on the bathroom counter. She feels easier when it is out of sight. Then she returns to bed.

_It's late and I drank too much_, she thinks. _Maybe in the morning._

As she lies down, her eyes find the clock resting at her bedside: 1:45. She'll have to wake early for the shoot. Her eyes find the ceiling, fall, trace the lines of the window, where outside darkness rests with a frightening sort of finality. And thinks with juvenile resentment of New York, where the sun is already sitting neatly in the sky, and everything is clearer.

_Oh but here_, she thinks, drifting into another fitful sleep, _morning is still a long time coming._

**Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon.**

Notes:

_Ittedakimasu_ –(is probably spelled wrong) means "let's eat", although it is all together more complicated than that. It's opposite is "_Gochisama_" (thanks for the food). I won't go into it. That's all!

Because of this stupid spasing mechanism called HTML format, among other things of course, I am not in the appropriate mood to go into how difficult it has been to write this. I'm sorry if it doesn't mean very much. I can't promise that it'll get better either. I CAN promise that I will give it my best go; does that suffice?

Probably not.

Oh well.

--Artemis


	6. Faith

VI. Faith

* * *

It's unromantic, but he doesn't remember the first time they met, exactly. Possibly he saw her at the junior high opening ceremony, although he hadn't been paying much attention at the time. Or maybe he just he ran into her while she was talking with her friends or next to the bicycle racks.

He remembers the first time he ever _noticed_ her though; meeting or seeing and noticing someone are different experiences, you know. It was a soccer game towards the beginning of the school year, _the_ game; he saw her sitting on the bleachers with her hand over her eyes, recognized her from somewhere…even then, he couldn't remember where they'd met first. At the time, he went to a lot of high school games, ever since his sister dragged him to a match so she could spy on someone. Still, that first one subsists as one of the best games he's ever seen. Seiwa versus Tsukushima Public High, the former had been one point down the entire second half. Things had been heating up and no one had scored for a while. There wasn't much time left. Then, just before stoppage time –sometimes, he gets flushed thinking about it—Seiwa's forward tied up the game with a flawless head-in. He felt dizzy as the ball brushed the goalie's hair before it hit the net. Seiwa's side erupted, but he'd been too breathless to say anything. And he saw her too, smile wide like a split sea. The game continued into stoppage, then into an extra fifteen minutes but Seiwa lost anyway –the greatest injustice of his eleven-year-old life. He saw her leap up and yell something with such ferocity he felt sure that the referees would change their mind. They didn't, of course. The second greatest injustice.

Later, he went behind the locker room to wait for Seiwa's forward to come out so he could express his resentment against the referees, maybe the whole system and the faulted scoring which allowed them to lose against any and all justice. When he saw him walking out, he ran up and introduced himself. Then the girl came around the corner and Taichi (the forward, who he would come to know very well after that) introduced him to his younger sister, Hikari, and he'd been around her ever since. It was only years later that he realized, when he saw her standing next to Taichi, their same eyes and spirited smile, he'd known he would fall in love with her even then, even if it wasn't conscious. He'd gotten the feeling that she was just as capable as he, maybe not in the same way, and that the things she could do would make him too dizzy and breathless to think, like the amazing score he'd made everyone had all but forgotten.

He doesn't even remember when he actually fell in love with her either. After that day, each experience seems to bleed into another. Everything before her seems vague and unimportant. Sometimes, he gets the feeling that every girl he knew before her—and every girl he had loved between, if he had ever _really_ loved them—was more or less a shadow of Hikari. It's more than a physical attraction, though his tastes run towards petite, short-haired perky types. It's something else, too. He always realizes later that the girl he'd been with or been interested in had one outstanding, Hikari-like quality that seemed to deteriorate almost as quickly as the relationship itself.

It's not that her qualities are unique, necessarily. Maybe it's just the combination of them that makes it so particular. Her sarcasm, her gentleness, the sharp/soft contrast of her eyes. Once, he dated a girl (she was okay pretty, but she snored and had an annoying habit of clicking her tongue when she was nervous) who wasn't like Hikari at all, just to prove something to himself. He didn't like her very much, honestly. But he ended up staying with her far longer than he should have just because her voice, deep and resonant, sounded very much like hers when she called his name.

He graduated and left for a college in America to play soccer, but he thought of her nearly everyday. He'd chase down girls that even remotely resembled her; he developed a taste for Japanese studies majors. Hikari took the place of homesickness. They say you never get over your first love, and if that's not love, what is?

So naturally, when she called and invited him to her housewarming party, he jumped at the opportunity. It'd only been a week since his return, and he'd idly begun looking for her on the internet to see if she still lived in the area (but he maintained a level of personal casualness so as not to be called obsessive). He hadn't seen her in five years, and only spoke to her the odd New Year over the phone. She'd apparently been out to visit Takeru in New York, but never made to his side of the country. Never mind.

He saw her standing next to the window, perfect as ever. His legs shook as he gave her his housewarming gift –a _hinaningyo_ his sister helped him pick out –her eyes crinkled as she unwrapped it. She thanked him; spoke with him continually throughout the night; said yes (she said YES!) when he asked her out coffee later in the week. Didn't squirm or cry or dodge when he kissed her goodnight after their first date, and she stayed for breakfast _and_ lunch the first night they spent together. They'd been dating steadily for a month and a half when she mentioned her apartment was lonely, and they were living together not too long after.

But –and he probably should have realized this before –they were in completely different places, emotionally. Hikari was what he'd been looking for his entire life, but not necessarily what was right for him at the moment. She had a full-time job by then and worked constantly even while he was on off-season; the two or three mini-breaks he attempted to surprise her with ended up canceled or spent alone. And she wasn't so perfect, anymore. She stole all the blankets no matter how many they piled on, her birth control made her cry easily, she hated cooking, and when she was depressed she did nothing but sleep, leaving her half of the housework to him.

And they argued. They argued over everything. Sometimes it was playful arguing, the kind that can be solved with a kiss or a bouquet of flowers. But other times it wasn't. He spent his one-year anniversary yelling through a bathroom door. He never knew what she was thinking. There was a month of peace, then another two months of arguing, of staying out late, of slamming doors. She slept a lot. Then one afternoon the hinaningyo broke and that was it. They yelled, he left.

But he still loved her.

He loved her even after they had to divide their CDs and she threw away his entire MONO collection. He loved her even after she refused all of his calls, after she asked him to return his keys to their apartment, even after she called him 'Motomiya' instead of 'Daisuke' on his answering machine. He loves her too much now to let her fall in love with someone else. So he met up with Takeru and enlisted his help, and Takeru understood and agreed.

And now he's waiting for her to show, at the café of their first date. She's already late, but he has no doubt that she'll appear. His fingers squeeze a glass of iced coffee. Finally, she walks through the door and sits down.

Her expression is unreadable as always, but she looks healthy and fresh, the winter chill evident on her cheeks.

"Long time no see." He says.

"I guess."

The waitress brings a green-tea smoothie. Hikari stares at it peculiarly, but he supplies,

"I figured you'd want it."

For a moment he fears she'll call the waitress back, but she merely unwraps the straw. They sit in silence, then he clears his throat.

"How's the apartment, doing? I mean…are you okay there, or…?"

She sighs, and he thinks he hears a note of frustration. "It's fine. I'm not lonely, if that's what you mean."

His stomach kicks. Is she sleeping with someone else?

She rolls her eyes. "I'm not seeing anyone. I've just been busy."

"Oh, okay." He smiles before he can control it and she smiles despite herself.

"How about you?" She asks.

"Good. Not seeing anyone."

"Okay."

"Okay."

He takes a long sip of his coffee. "You look different." He says.

She shrugs. "I just look happy."

His reply stalls as he tries to analyze what she said. Happy to see him, or happy for some other reason? He wonders whether she will explain herself but she's busy watching the counter. So he clears his throat and decides to forget about it.

"Do you have anything to do after this, or…?"

"I'm on lunch. I've got to get back to Aoyama before 2:00, so…"

"So I guess we don't have much time."

She nods slightly. "Sorry."

"No, I'm just happy I got to see you."

She smiles again, a little bit, and his heart leaps. They converse a little bit; he mentions that he'll leave for Okinawa for two weeks after Christmas. She seems disappointed he won't be in Tokyo for the New Year, and he is secretly very pleased. Finally, she rises to leave.

"I'll get this." He says before she can offer. She nods.

"Thanks. This was nice."

"It was. Maybe I'll call later this week or something. If you're not busy, I mean."

She stares at him. "I was really scared, you know. I thought maybe…"

"What?" He grins a little bit. "That I was calling to get back together?"

Her expression remains neutral, but she reddens a little bit. He shrugs, stirring the ice cubes in his empty glass.

"What if I had asked? What would you say?"

She sways slightly on her feet. "I'm going."

He sighs, smiling a little. "Alright. Maybe I'll see you."

She makes a noncommittal shrug, leaves. He watches her cross the street through the window and disappear. She didn't say she wouldn't see him. That's almost as good as 'yes'.

He texts Takeru, pays, leaves. He starts composing a text to Hikari in his head. Maybe he'll send it on Thursday.

He used to think, and sometimes he still does, that this thing between them isn't love. Love is funny in its refusal to stay distinct and defined. Or maybe it's her refusal to define herself for him that's funny. He pushes these thoughts out of his mind. It's nothing like that, he tells himself. At least, he loves her too much to believe otherwise.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Digimon.**

Happy holidays, everyone!

--Artemis


	7. Justice

Justice

VII. Justice

_Kari, thinking of Karuizawa. _

_Lunch was nice. Again, sometime?_

_-Daisuke_

Her cellphone, exiled to the far corner her desk, sits silent in pending judgment. Her eyes scan the message across the distance with dull dread. It's been over a week. She really should have responded by now.

Hikari holds the desk phone a little closer against her ear and turns the chair towards the window. Maybe later.

Someone finally answers. "Takaishi."

"Working hard?"

On the other line, his ergonomic chair squeaks forward, as though he were leaning into his hands.

"Hey, what's up?" There is a note of fatigue between his words. She frowns.

"Nothing, really…is this a bad time?"

"No, no." He sighs. "We're just a little backed up. Holiday rush, you know."

"I…" She casts another guilty glance towards her cellphone, "I was thinking maybe we could get lunch, or dinner, or…since last Monday didn't work out, I mean…"

A pause. "The company's having a board lunch this afternoon and my boss wants me to tag along, so…and tonight I have to catch up on this Pascal translation…"

Even knowing he can't see her, she forces herself to smile. "Oh okay, that's fine. I'll call back when…"

"I…" His voice hesitates over another, almost silent sigh, "I'm not busy tomorrow night, though. If you're not busy."

Her heart inexplicably gives a great leap, and she immediately presses her hand over it to soothe its enthusiasm. "I don't have anything planned."

"I won't be done until late, but we can meet somewhere, or you can come over to my place, or…"

"Your place?" She presses her hand harder over her heart, "Are you going to make dinner?"

"I guess…maybe?"

"Wow, I'm impressed. I didn't even know you _had_ a kitchen."

"Nii-kun and I are related, you know." He says dryly. "He taught me a thing or two."

"Okay, okay. Your place for dinner, tomorrow…"

"After ten."

"After ten." She leans onto her desk, smiling broadly. "See you then."

She hangs up and swivels out of her chair, feeling positively lifted. But, as though rebelling against her negligence, her cellphone begins to vibrate its way across her desk.

Hikari stops dead, suddenly weighed down for all the buoyancy she'd felt not five seconds earlier. Her eyes tentatively peruse the screen. New message from Daisuke.

She hesitates, debates briefly, snaps the phone shut.

I'll read it later, she tells herself. I promise.

--

"Desuku-kun…" Aoyama leans on the doorway, casually tugging the hem of her skirt. "Am I bothering?"

Takeru forcibly begins to scribble notes on the forward of his book and shakes his head.

She bows, a little bit for show, but stays in the doorway just the same. "Was it your friend who called again?"

"Mm." Takeru nods, finally looking up. "You were listening, huh? What would Kikazaru say?"

She blinks at him a moment, utterly vacant; Takeru can almost literally see his words flying over her head. Then she smiles again. "The way you speak is so funny! I think you were in America too long."

Aoyama –Chiyo, as she continually insists—is a lower division copy editor two rooms down from Takeru. When he first started working in July, he had often seen her fanning herself against the door of Saitou, a publicity assistant, to escape the summer humidity in their central air-conditioned office. Now with Christmas nearing, she often seeks refuge against his door, claiming her office is so cold she can see her breath.

She tugs her skirt again, this time higher against her legs, and Takeru leans his arms on his desk.

"Did you need something?"

"I just want to warm up a little bit. I think they're having more problems with the vents on my side of the office –it's just so cold…" She rubs her arms lightly up and down as she takes a few wandering steps inside, eyes falling over the papers on his desk, to the paintings on the wall. "Ne, Desuku-kun…"

Takeru swallows a sigh. "Mm?"

Aoyama looks at him then blushes. "Never mind."

He sets down his pen. "What is it?"

"Oh nothing, just…" Her eyes catch on one of the paintings on the wall, a blindfolded woman. "Who is your friend? The one who keeps calling?"

"She's a childhood friend."

"I was just wondering…" She pulls on her skirt again, "I mean, because you usually don't work late on Mondays, that's all."

"Is that it?" He asks airily, wishing very much that she would leave. But Aoyama continues her promenade through his office, entirely oblivious.

"On Monday and Tuesdays, we…I mean, Kobayashi, Himura, Abe and I…we usually go out for happy hour. I want to invite you but you're usually busy…so next time, if you'd like to come…We all usually stay out late. But only if your friend doesn't mind."

She runs her finger along the edge of his desk, and he watches it, as though it were a spider.

"Why would she?" He asks.

Aoyama, all smiles, merely shrugs.

--

Although too embarrassed to admit it herself, the promise of tomorrow evening has Hikari overwhelmed with excitement. She resists fiddling through her closet and goes running instead, thinking maybe she'll get a good night sleep so she won't be tired in the evening.

She wakes up late, showers, eats a light breakfast. She gets a call from her only appointment that day; so-and-so can't make it; can they reschedule the shoot. Of course. She lays back on the couch. It's only eleven. Still eleven hours left.

Today is a good day to rearrange the office, she thinks. She re-hangs all the portraits on the wall, moves around the furniture, takes advice from a Feng Shui book. Yes, the energy in the room is much better now. It's two o' clock. She glares menacingly at her watch.

She sits on the couch again. There was something else she had to do. What, exactly? Her eyes fall to her cellphone with a creeping dread. Then it dawns on her; the office needs something yellow. She fixes her hair and goes to a swanky design store across town. She browses through yellow pillows and yellow pots, yellow curtains and yellow picture frames. One rug later, she sits in the office with a fleeting sense of accomplishment.

It's four-thirty. She sighs. Her purse could use a good rearranging, too. She dumps the contents on the desk and piece by piece puts them back inside. There's not much, honestly. Her eyes arrive at her phone again. How many days has it been? Maybe…

But her stomach growls so she goes to the kitchen and decides to try out a new recipe. She has to go to the store to get the ingredients, has to chop the vegetables, has to prepare a crust. At the store, she decided to make dessert to compliment dinner. She washes the berries, whips the cream, finds a box cutter for the wax paper. She's so preoccupied she loses her appetite.

Finally, dessert is done. It's seven and thankfully, evening has started to fall. She puts the dessert in the refrigerator and meticulously cleans the kitchen. How do housewives do this, she wonders. She sits on the couch again. Maybe I should take a nap. She lays her head across the pillows, idly daydreaming. The phone stays in the office.

At eight o' clock, she thinks she smells funny so she gets up and takes a long shower. She shaves and washes her hair, does a special exfoliant, and even tries that skin-evening cream Miyako raves about. She paints her nails pink while her hair dries. She decides she wants to wear matching lingerie for the hell of it, and tears through her drawers in search of the bra that matches her only pair of designer underwear. She debates between wearing jeans and a nice blouse or a dress; she doesn't want to appear fancy. She decides three potential outfits and lays them on her bed. It's nine o' seven. What else is there to do? She lays herself back on the couch. She's so bored. She's so fucking bored. She's been bored all day. She should have called Miyako to go out. She should even have called…

Her breath catches and she sits up. Her eyes find the phone in the office. This is ridiculous, she thinks to herself. She slides off the couch and walks into the office, lifts the phone, sorts through the contacts. What am I so afraid of, she asks herself. There's nothing to be afraid of.

Hikari nearly jumps out of her skin when the phone rings in her hand. She checks the incoming number. Takeru.

"Hello?"

"Hey, I got off early and I'm stopping at the convenience store. What time do you want to come over? Maybe forty-five minutes?"

She brushes her hair behind her ear and nearly bites her tongue. "Yeah, forty-five. See you there."

Everything goes on hold and she runs back to her bedroom to fiddle over her clothes. She applies her makeup quickly; the outfits she picked are all wrong and she has to find another; where did she leave her perfume; suddenly, there's no time for any of it. She manages to get out of the house, but has to run back for the dessert.

Only when she is in the elevator up to Takeru's floor does she remember the call she was supposed to make. Artfully balancing her pavlova in one hand, she puts the phone on silent and drops it to the bottom of her bag.

--

He answers the door in a tomato-stained apron.

"Are you making something Italian?" She says, smiling. "Where did you learn how to cook Italian?"

"I've got my secrets." He says, taking the dessert and giving it a once over as he moves to the kitchen. "What is this, anyway?"

"It's a Pavlova." She uses the wall to balance as she removes her shoes, "Meringue with berries and raspberry sauce. Just stick it in the refrigerator."

She takes a seat on one of the barstools as he fiddles over what appears to be sauce. "Pavlova, huh? When did you get into making fancy desserts?"

"If you get secrets, so do I."

He smiles. "Fair enough."

Hikari allows herself one good moment to look at him. Shirt collar disheveled, tomato sauce in the corner of his mouth, he is still amazingly handsome.

"Why are you staring at me?" He asks.

She blushes immediately but thankfully, he hasn't looked up at her. "You have sauce on your mouth."

His tongue peeks out, distractedly tasting the creases of his lips, and suddenly she feels very hot and her heart hammers against her ribs. She presses her clenched hands against the countertop.

"Anything I can help with?"

"Nope." He says coolly. "Almost done."

"What's on the menu?"

"Melanzane alla parmigiana."

She crinkles her nose. "That's eggplant, right?"

He grins. "You still don't like eggplant?"

"If you remembered," she quips, "then why did you make it?"

Takeru puts a lid on the sauce and leans on the counter. "Wanna know the secret?"

She leans forward. In a whisper, he says, "It's the only thing I can make."

Hikari laughs loudly and he steps back towards the oven. "So don't be ungrateful."

"I'm sure I'm going to love it."

--

She loves it. She loves the slight excess of eggplant and the improvisation of shitake mushrooms instead of the better-suited Portobellos. She loves the vague bitterness of the sauce, which should have had more sugar and less oregano. She even loves the splatters of sauce awry on the outside of the plate, and sops them up neatly with focaccia. Then they cut the Pavlova. It's delicious, he raves, and seems to enjoy it. But secretly, its perfection disappoints her.

Later, she runs the plates under hot water as Takeru opens the dishwasher.

"I saw you had 'Gwoemul' on the coffee table."

"Yeah. It was a going away present from my roommate in New York. He thought I was Korean."

She snickers.

"Did you wanna watch it?" He asks off-handedly, reaching for the dish towel. Inside of her chest, her heart once again shakes the bones of her ribcage.

"Yeah." She manages.

He finishes up and takes a seat on the couch. She stands idly, debating between the couch and the chair. He looks at her strangely and, feeling silly, she takes a seat beside him.

In the dim light, with the movie flashing on-screen, Hikari struggles between reading the subtitles and admiring Takeru's mouth as he clarifies the confusing parts; she can't read English quickly enough. She tries to understand but her thoughts are beyond her control, relishing the sound of his words and the slight, adorable accent his voice has taken from years abroad.

"Did you catch that?"

She smiles apologetically. "One more time?"

"The government is telling everyone that there's a deadly virus but it's just to save face. And now they're going to perform a lobotomy…" Now he sighs. "This movie was a bad choice."

"It's interesting!" She protests.

He smirks. "You haven't been paying attention at all."

She hesitates, but before she can say another word, the lights flicker and die. Seconds later, the apartment buildings next door shut down as well, and the entire flat is bathed in darkness.

"Power outage?" Takeru murmurs. It's so dark, his voice is the only indication of another presence. A shiver races up her spine. She's never liked the dark. But she swallows her apprehension.

"I'll get my cell phone. Where's my purse?"

"The kitchen counter. I'll get it."

"No, let me…"

There is a blunt thud and a small stream of English curses. Hikari covers her mouth to keep from laughing, but hits herself against the edge of the couch and narrowly keeps her balance.

"You okay, Kari?"

"Ow, fine. Where are you?"

"Over here."

"Oh, _that's_ helpful."

"Just stay put, I know where the counter is…" Another dull thud suggests otherwise. Hikari takes a few hesitant steps forward.

"Takeru?"

"Stop moving, I'll come to you."

"I think I'm already next to the…ow!" Her elbow hits against the counter. "There it is."

"I'm right here. Can you see me?"

"Barely."

She steps forward with her fingers out until, with a rush of relief, she feels the collar of shirt.

"Found you."

"Found your purse."

Hikari squints as she finds his hands and her hand bag, digging to the bottom where at last her fingers reach her cell phone. A white light, fairy-like, illuminates their faces, and she suddenly realizes how close they are standing.

She swallows slowly.

"That was good thinking, Kari. I have no idea what to do in these kind of situations."

"Don't these apartments usually have private generators?"

"I think there's a common one…but they were working in the sewers today so maybe that's got something to do with this. We ought to light some candles or something."

"Sounds romantic." She whispers, almost inaudibly. "I've got some matches. Here, hold my phone."

They exchange hands and Hikari once again digs through her purse. Takeru shines the light directly over her hands, peering curiously inside; his hair brushes against her forehead, making her hands tremble. What's wrong with her, honestly?

The cell light cuts. "Whoops."

"You have to keep pushing it." She says. "Just push any button."

"I'm trying. Nothing's happening."

"Did you lock it? Here let me see…"

"It's here."

"I think you locked it. How did you do that?"

The tiny light flashes on again, once more illuminating their closeness. His mouth looks unreal in the off-blue glow, enticing and unattainable. Hikari lifts her head slightly and gives a long blink, the 'Hollywood move' he used to tease her about years ago in high school.

Her purse clatters to the floor.

"Your purse…"

"Don't worry about it." She says calmly.

The cell phone's light dies again, leaving only an impression of his closeness in her mind. But intuition tells her that their noses are millimeters from touching. She can feel the back of his fingers brushing against the tips of hers, his breath echoing evenly through his nose, low and rhythmic.

But suddenly, vision flashes back to her as her cell phone flickers to life. Incoming call.

Hikari holds her ground, reluctant to break the spell of the moment though she knows it's already passed.

"You should answer it." Takeru says. His throat sounds dry. They both know who it is, and that wounds her.

"What if…" She trails off. What if I don't want to?

"Answer it. I'll find some candles."

He feels his way towards the kitchen, her eyes burning holes against him she's sure he can feel. She bites her lip and, thinking quickly, answers the phone:

"This is Hikari. I'm sorry I cannot answer the phone. Please leave a message."

Because it is still dark, she cannot see Takeru's expression. All the better. Daisuke, oblivious, begins to talk.

"Hey, Kari…I'm sorry I'm calling so late, I just…thought I'd take a chance. You usually don't sleep until late. Um…I was just around the corner, visiting…some friends and I wanted to know if you were free…maybe, maybe not tonight but maybe tomorrow for lunch or…just, call me back if you get a chance. I'd really like to see you."

Hikari slowly ends the call. Seconds later, the lights come back on, washing everything in a dim orange light. She can see Takeru's face now, a mix of several complicated emotions but with a distinct stain of disappointment.

She picks up her purse and drops the phone back into her bag.

"He still wants to see me." She says.

"Do you want to see him?" He returns quietly.

"I don't know." Her eyes fall to the floor.

"You're not being fair."

"I know."

"He's still in love with you."

She swallows. "I know."

"Are you…?"

She quickly turns her eyes to him. His emotions are now completely unreadable. Her pulse quickens and she doesn't know how to answer. Yes, no, maybe. There's someone else, she wants to say but…

The silence goes on and finally he smiles, and for such a handsome thing she feels like it could tear her apart.

"You ought to call him back, then…don't you think?"

"Takeru…"

"Don't think too much." He walks over, touching her shoulder. She doesn't notice that his hands are shaking. "Didn't you used to say that your first thought is usually the right one?"

She nods slowly. Her eyes burn as she heads towards the foyer. He lingers as she slips on her shoes, still unreadable.

"Thanks for dinner, and…"

She steps forward quickly and, ignoring his surprise, wraps her arm around him. She feels his chest stiffen against her cheek, his heartbeat quickening in her ear. And his hands touching her arms as he, with crushing tenderness, pulls them apart.

"Goodnight." He says.

She tries not to cry. "Goodnight."

--

In the hallway, Hikari digs her phone from the bottom of her purse. She reaches the elevator and, realizing she doesn't have the strength to talk, sends out a quick text message saying that she could meet Daisuke for an early lunch tomorrow.

He responds seconds later, confirming her plans.

"I'm a coward."

Only afterwards does she allow herself to cry.

--

Takeru is still shaking as he leans on the kitchen counter, all of his senses still with her in the dark, in the foyer, breathing against him.

He'd been blinded. She was still in love with Daisuke, and that realization fills him with an incomprehensible pain.

He glances at the stove. He needs to feel something else.

Then, he has a different idea. He finds his cell phone.

"This is Himura."

"Himura, it's Takaishi. Are you still out with Aoyama and Kobayashi…?"

"Yeah! We're on our way to a yakitori stand."

"I know a good one not too far from my place. Can I meet you?"

"Sure, we're near Odaiba-Kaihinkoen. You're close by, right?"

"Yeah. See you there."

He ends the call and starts to look around for his coat. He grabs it, his wallet, puts on his shoes. Closes the door. Realizes it would have been better just to stick his hand in the fire.

He makes his way to the elevator.

I'm a coward.

End of Chapter VII.

Notes:

Thinking of Karuizawa—

Karuizawa is a popular vacation spot in Japan. For anybody who keeps up with Ouran High School Host Club, it's the place where Haruhi works when her plans are unceremoniously dashed by the lovely boys, haha.

What would Kikazaru say? —

Mizaru, Kikazaru and Iwazaru are the "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" monkeys that we often see in popular culture. Kikazaru warns against eavesdropping and advises that each person mind his or hers own business.

Desuku—

Desuku is the Japanization (it's a word, I swear) of English word 'desk', but it's also the job title for a copy editor. In Japan, employees of the same company typically address each other by their title rather than their name as what I would assume is a sign of respect.

Melanzane alla Parmigiana—

Eggplant parmesan. Not only is it delicious, but it's easy to make, too.

Pavlova—

A crispy on the outside, soft on the inside desert with raspberries, blueberries and strawberries on top, drizzled in raspberry sauce (end drool). You can find a recipe and probably a picture too at ; I got the recipe from Ina Garten, a cooking genius. GENIUS!!

Gwoemul—

A 2006 Korean film (English title: The Host) about a monster attack in Seoul (I think). My friends rave about this movie and I haven't seen it yet. It was probably irresponsible of me to put it into this story since I don't really know what it's about…--;;

That's all.

Hazharu, you're right. This is boring. I think maybe I'm getting too bogged down in symbolism. Though fourteen chapters are a drag, they're also required, so there's nothing I can do. And now that I realize that I'm dead-ending (which is why, p.s., it's taking so long to update) it might be easier to write. I'll consider it my new challenge to make each chapter more enticing and relevant. So that's the state of the union.

For everyone else (pickledevil, half-note, downxandxout, Naruke, gochateau, Crystal and the rest of the gang), **thanks** for your continual support. Seriously. You have no idea how much I appreciate the encouragement. I'm finally home after a year abroad and with nothing to do for the next month, I'll dedicate more time to improving my writing skills. Thank you thank you thank you.


	8. Charity

VIII. Charity

"Ne, you're awake, Desuku-kun?" Aoyama's delicate fingers zip the back of her skirt and she turns to face him, smiling. "I was going to let you sleep another half an hour."

Takeru sits up, terrified.

Though straining to listen, he can't hear anything beyond the cottony memories of the night before. His watering eyes take in the ceiling, drift to the walls lined with smiling, unfamiliar faces, and finally settle back on Aoyama. He groans darkly.

"Don't look so worried." She smiles from the edge of the bed. "You still have time to take a shower."

Takeru shuts his eyes, thinking it might be a dream. Swallowing carefully, he manages to force a few strangled words through his throat.

"Aoyama, last night…"

"Don't apologize." She giggles, leaning over to draw fine circles on his naked shoulder. "You were just a little too sleepy to do it. I'm not upset."

He fights the urge to groan again as she stands.

"I'm just going to run a few errands." Throwing a gentle smile over her shoulder, she says, "I'll see you later," lifts her purse and leaves.

Takeru is a little shaken. He waits a few minutes before he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and feels a sickness not unlike nausea fill his stomach. He tries to get his bearings. Her apartment is a studio somewhere between Odaiba-Kaihinkoen and Arashi Towers. It is small and meagerly decorated except for the photographs on the walls. Outside, he can see the same bank building he sees when he opens his windows in the morning.

He starts to make his way around, unfolds the clothes hung neatly over the couch and dresses quickly. He's already composing the excuse he'll give for not coming into work. And anyway, to say that he's sick wouldn't exactly be lying.

His wallet and keys rest beside a pot of nasturtiums and stuffing them in his pocket, Takeru quickly makes his way through unfamiliar halls, past the stalled elevator and inevitably, down fifteen flights of stairs. When he finally reaches the bottom, a little winded, he is dismayed to see rainclouds blowing in overhead.

He joins the rest of the morning pedestrians on the walk home.

-----

Those same northern rainclouds stay suspended in the air, barely moving in the mid-December morning. Hikari observes them intermingling with the skyscrapers thirty-two stories over Shibuya, light sifting and spilling through the gray, aerial mist. She's lost in thought, caught up momentarily in the natural light. How peaceful it seems compared to the darkness of hours earlier.

"Hikari." Her assistant, Martin, drums his jean pockets. "What should we do then? About the light?"

She touches the window. Icy cold beneath her fingers, she takes an unexpected breath. Then she remembers herself and, a little embarrassed, starts fiddling with her camera settings. "Let's get a light reading over here. Something small, you know, just one or two models, while the light lasts."

"Sure." He starts barking orders in his Czech-accented Japanese, and slowly, like a fish on a line, Hikari is pulled back to the moving world. The whole crew begins to orient themselves towards the windows and she takes a step back, free from the spell of the winter light, and falls into her work, directing props, lights, models. She doesn't think about anything else until after the shoot is finished, when everything is all packed away and noon flashes inescapably on her mobile phone.

She stuffs her things in her bag, wishing almost comically that her apprehensions could be stuffed away as easily. "I'm done, Martin. Make sure these get back to the Kaen studio, okay?"

Martin gives a distracted okay, rambling English into his cell phone. She hesitates a moment, trying to understand him, then heads from the office towards the elevator.

Devoid of food and tears, her empty body had been drifting from one point to the next all morning. She had woken up just hours earlier fully dressed, standing in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand. How she got there, she didn't know.

She pinches herself discreetly. Is she still sleepwalking?

----

From the directions Daisuke sent to her mobile, Hikari reaches the restaurant a little after twelve-thirty. It is a big and conspicuous noodle house, one that takes up a whole street corner, and for a flash of a moment she thinks of Takeru's preference for those intimate, hole-in-the-wall places that blend in with convenience stores and laundromats.

Daisuke is sitting on the bench outside, dressed more neatly than she could ever remember –a fitted black jacket, nice jeans, an expensive-looking scarf and a black baseball cap. His trademark face-splitting smile meets her as she walks across the street.

"You made it." He claps his bare hands together briskly.

"I made it." She says tentatively. She pulls her coat closer around her. "Should we go inside?"

"Should we? I don't know." He takes in a deep breath, still smiling. "Do you want to walk? It's a nice day."

She shrugs warily and he, jogging three steps forward, looks playfully over his shoulder. "Come on, let's take a walk." So she sighs and follows him.

They walk up the street without a word, and within minutes, the busy avenue opens into a park where Daisuke wanders in without any hesitation. Hikari stops at the gate, however, and he pauses.

"What's wrong? Oh, were you hungry? We can go back, I mean…"

"I'm not hungry." She says.

Daisuke's smile falters slightly, and he turns to face her.

"Why did you want to see me?" She asks. "Why really?"

He turns bashful suddenly, kicking his shoe against the tiny tufts of grass springing up through the cobblestone walkway.

"I uh…I wanted to ask you if you'd be my date for this charity event with the league. My inviting you is sort of last minute but I…" He chews his lip, then looks up, "You know, I just couldn't think of anyone else I wanted to go with."

She holds her ground at the gate, unsmiling. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "It's for a good cause. And I already bought your ticket, so I was just hoping…"

"What day is it?"

And there it is, that familiar gleam of hope in his eyes. She can see him trying to smother it, but it's there all the same.

"It's tomorrow. Tomorrow night."

She watches him for a minute. The waiting is agony for him. Finally, her expression still immobile, she says, "Okay. I'll go with you."

He looks disbelieving. Then, like a child discovering the puppy he's received for Christmas, he smiles from one ear to the other. "Great! Thank you."

He bites his lip, unable to contain himself. "Do you still want to walk? I mean, we're at the park and all…"

Still without smiling, though perhaps her expression is a little softer, she walks forward to meet him and they continue side by side down the rock path. They walk, chatting idly, for almost an hour, and ultimately Daisuke promises to pick her up around six the following evening.

As she is leaving, she manages a small smile, then turns away, walking quickly towards the station lest she see his face again.

The ease of her own smile frightens her.

----

Returning home, Hikari finds there are no messages on her answering machine, no missed calls on her cell phone, and no new e-mails in her inbox. She stares at the computer screen blankly.

Eventually, she goes into the bedroom. There, she runs her fingers over her clothes until they brush a red dress, one she'd never gotten the chance to wear, and with little ceremony or excitement hangs it on her closet door. Then, she goes to the bathroom and runs a bath.

When it is finally filled to the top, she undresses and slides in. The water is so high that thin cascades spill over the sides. She tips her head all the way back and closes her eyes. Her mind wanders. _Natural light. The white faerie glow of her mobile phone._ Her lips part slightly. _Wide blue eyes._

There is a knock on the front door.

Hikari is so startled she slides underneath the water. She resurfaces seconds later, gasping for air as she hugs her chest into her knees. The knocking continues. She reaches around for her towel, dripping water all over the bathroom floor as she hastily stands and wraps it around her. She pads gently into the living room and peers through the peephole.

Then with a sigh, she cracks the door.

Miyako stands in the hallway with her hands behind her back.

"Sorry, I always seem to drop by unannounced." She's beaming. "You're soaked."

"I was in the bath."

"Aren't you going to invite me inside?"

With another suppressed sigh, Hikari steps aside, allowing Miyako into the foyer. Miyako, who normally might have blushed seeing Hikari half-dressed, simply beams at her.

Hikari stares back with lessening patience. "What's going on?" She asks slowly.

"Do I look different?"

She blinks. "W…what?"

"Different. Isn't there something unique about me today?"

Now, Hikari frowns. "You know how I feel about guessing games. Just tell me."

"Kari-chaaaan, you're no fun." Miyako very slowly, very deliberately slaps Hikari's shoulder. It takes Hikari a moment to notice what she's referring to exactly –which is all together unreasonable, given the simple, neatly-set diamond in place of her usual cheap costume jewelry. Hikari's eyes widen and Miyako shrieks before she even has a chance to.

"Can you believe it? I'm really becoming an old woman!" She cries with zeal, wrapping her arms around her, towel and all. "Will you be my bridesmaid?"

"Of course!" Hikari squeals. "Of course, of course, of course! Oh, Miyako!"

Miyako uncoils her arms and immediately begins pushing her back toward the bedroom. "Come on now, get dressed. We're meeting Tatsuki and Chizuru for drinks but not before three rounds of karaoke and I don't care what you have to say about that."

"Okay, okay!" She steps through the threshold of the bedroom and toward the closet, fishing out something appropriate. "You've decided to have a western-style wedding?"

"Pssh, of course." Says Miyako, flicking her purple hair distractedly over her shoulder. "I've only been planning it since my second year of high school."

Hikari stops woefully, her hand on her forehead. "Married…I can't believe it."

"You can't say anything until next week, okay? Not Taichi or anyone. We're announcing it at the Christmas party."

She smiles, and there is a warmth visible in her now, so sweet that she cannot understand why she didn't notice it the moment Miyako stepped into the apartment.

"So come on, get dressed, get dressed." She sits on the edge of her bed, eyes flickering quietly over the contents of her closet as Hikari picks up the dropped clothes.

"That's pretty." Miyako indicates the red dress suspended beside the closet. "Is it new?"

Her heart constricts a little, and she shakes her head. "No, not that one. Just never got around to wearing it."

Miyako grins a little deviously. "_Someone's_ going to like that one."

Hikari turns away, as if to keep her eyes occupied.

"I'm sure he will."

She stares at the dress, and a peculiar feeling pools in the bottom of her stomach. It is little lasting though, and Miyako, sighing loudly again whines, "Okay, come on! Get dressed or they'll beat us there!" And she mutely obeys.

----

Just before six the next evening, Hikari idly brushes her hair, pins it back, and quickly reapplies her makeup. She hadn't showered again after she'd returned home earlier that evening—she couldn't be bothered. Even now, starring into the mirror at her reflection, sweet and lovely in the red dress, she feels unmoved.

A knock comes at the door and she, with a resolute breath, leaves the bedroom to answer it.

Daisuke is there, a red carnation corsage in his hand. His eyes light up when he sees her.

"You look great." He says, in this sort of goofy, adolescent way that both endears him to her and somewhat annoys her.

"I'll grab my purse." She does, turns off the light and shuts the door. "Shall we go?"

He nods, holding the corsage awkwardly in his hands as he follows her to the elevator.

----

The corsage she doesn't notice at all until they're thirty-five minutes out of Odaiba, at which point she sees it, then turns her eyes to the car window without a word, guilt overshadowed by the passing streetlights against the icy December evening.

Only when they have arrived at their destination does she acknowledge it, feigning surprise at the all-but-forgotten red flower in his hands.

"Thank you." She says softly, and Daisuke, his previous letdown vanished, slides it on her wrist.

It is mostly smiling and hand-shaking thereafter. Daisuke bothers to introduce her to everyone present—managers, owners, all of his teammates, most of them escorted by models, all of them discomfited in their tuxedos and formal wear. Hikari is at ease, long-acquainted with schmoozing from a career built primarily amongst fashion models and television idols. She does her best not to face Daisuke's beaming smile, his over-eager laughter at any one thing she might say, his hand situated on the small of her back as he guides her from one person to the next.

But eventually, when she does look at him, she is surprised to feel the ardor of his gaze creeping into her heart. It happens like a lightning bolt. All at once, that same dread—the fear of how easy it is to be affected by him—washes in her stomach. She unconsciously pushes it away. She finds herself smiling warmly in return, less and less able to recall why she had been so apprehensive in the first place.

The foreign team owner with whom they now chat speaks dismal Japanese, but his escort, a lovely Spanish woman, speaks eloquently on his behalf.

"Motomiya-san, you and your date are so charming. What a captivating young couple you are."

Daisuke opens his mouth but Hikari, without really thinking, says,

"Thank you. Your words are too kind."

Daisuke stares at her in bafflement. She realizes then what has happened and, smiling still, excuses herself to get some air.

Outside on the patio, alight softly with hanging lanterns, Hikari leans against a statute to catch her breath. The corsage seems somehow too tight, and she feels like smoking a cigarette even though she's never once smoked in her life.

She doesn't ask herself what's happening because she knows, because she'd been fighting to extinguish it before it got to this point. She remembers now why she liked him, his candid honesty, his disarming gestures of affection. She knows and it makes her sick, and suddenly she's thinking it's too exhausting to fight it anymore.

It would be easier, wouldn't it?

_There's no reason I shouldn't_, she thinks to herself. Some people find happiness in giving happiness to others. She'd always been so selfish. Maybe she should think of others for a change.

_But_, the little voice in the back of her mind starts to say, _that's not all there is, is there?_ And her mind is remembering the dream, herself reflected in the mirror, _not Daisuke_…

Daisuke comes charging through the patio door then, breaking just as quickly into a walk at the sight of her.

"Oh, there you are." He says. "Sorry, I didn't know where you'd gone to."

She starts inwardly and shrugs outwardly, still fidgeting with the corsage. He steps towards her, tugging on his necktie.

"I can't believe that woman." He says with false incredulity. "Just because you're here with me, I mean…it doesn't mean that we're…"

"It's not an outrageous assumption." She says softly.

She tries to pull the corsage looser but it won't give. Daisuke holds his ground and nervously she looks up, seeing his glimmering eyes, his harmless smile. She sighs plaintively, _what am I so afraid of, anyway?_

"I know I'm not supposed to ask you this," He says it slowly, as if he's trying to choose his words carefully, "but I…I think about you a lot, and I want…"

She looks up, quells the urge to run, to escape into the party. She knows what he's going to say but she isn't going to fight him anymore.

"I want to, um…" Sharply, like an elementary schooler in morning assembly, he bows with a straight back, fists clenched tightly to his side. "I want to get back together."

She stares. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the gesture, or the rush of his voice as he said it. Maybe it was the needless ceremony by which he made the declaration. Whatever the cause, she covers her mouth and laughs, hard.

He glances up, so predictably confused, but she can't keep the giggles from spilling out of her mouth.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I…" She continues to laugh.

Daisuke takes a sure step forward then, puts his hand on her waist and without any ceremony at all this time, kisses her laughing mouth. Just as suddenly as the laughter bubbled up there is alarm, her own reflection, a vision of blue eyes, of natural light.

_Not Daisuke._

She gasps, and with it he stops himself, blushing uncontrollably, but resolute and unapologetic.

"I want to get back together." His rough hand strokes the side of her face, and she doesn't squirm or pull away. "What do you say?"

Hikari bites her lip. _I can be with him and still live the life I want, I know. They don't interfere._

_But…_

She closes her thoughts.

Then she nods very slightly. "Okay."

He smiles, big and wide and goofy, and kisses her again, and in a second or two she manages to close her eyes, where behind them she sees nothing but darkness.

-----

Somewhere back in Odaiba, Takeru trips on the sidewalk.

He turns back to find, much to his surprise, not a crack in the concrete but a homeless woman with her legs stretched out on the pavement. Her bags are scattered beneath his feet.

"Sorry, ma'am." He says, bending to collect her things and return them.

The woman, perhaps in her late forties, cranes her head slowly to the side.

"No trouble." She says. "It's happened at least four times today, but at least _you_ stopped."

Takeru does not know what to say, so he merely hands her back the bags.

"I'll ask you a favor." She says, offering him something from her pale, strangely clean hands. He hesitates, but obediently opens his palms. She drops it there, a plastic-encased fortune cookie.

"Read it to me." She says.

Takeru nods and unwraps the cookie, wondering how he got himself into this situation. The fortune cookie is in English. He wets his lips, thinking.

"It says…'Honest hearts produce honest actions.'"

"Ah." She says. "Then that one is for you."

Again, he is at a loss. The woman bows from her seat on the pavement and Takeru, a little surprised, bows in return then continues home.

He keeps the crumpled little paper in his pocket and forgets about it. Some days later, wearing the same jacket, he will open it and not remember where it came from.

---------

**End of Chapter VIII.**

Hah, gotta love them mystical homeless ladies.

Oh nos! What's Takeru gonna do?

Notes, notes, notes…well, I got nothing.

GOD. I realize this story has been going on forever. Happily, I'm halfway done. Yayayayay. Thanks for sticking around, yo.


	9. Anger

IX. Anger

* * *

A sense of dread has crept into his subconscious, a subtle and nameless thing. He can't put his finger on it. It starts one late morning with a sour under-taste in his breakfast cereal, then there's nothing good on television, then he can't find the scarf he'd just bought the day before, then a sudden downpour starts when all the windows in the apartment are wide open. They are little things that add up. He's so distracted by his bad mood he can't work at all, and plays Go against the office computer for three days straight. Nothing gets done. The Pascal translation has six counted coffee mug rings, and Aoyama lingers in his doorway, and Hikari doesn't call, not once.

Then suddenly, with very little ceremony, the source of all his malaise comes to him. He's asleep and dreaming; the room he sees is filled by a narrow staircase. There is nowhere to go but down. He tries to descend the stairs but Hikari and Daisuke are walking there together, very slowly, the staircase is too narrow to pass them, and they don't seem to hear when he asks, then shouts for them to move. Takeru wakes in a sweat and knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what his subconscious had already discerned from the particular hidden unfoldings of the universe. He falls back into a restless unsleep, his thoughts clanging around in his head like pots in a cupboard. At the first touch of daylight, he rises, strips himself of clothes and steps into the shower. Then, safe under a scalding flood of water, he screams.

The following days are a blur of endless daytimes and sleepless nighttimes. No one would have anticipated this reaction, least of all Takeru himself. He feels a destructive energy he hasn't felt in years, and channels it into his neglected work. When he isn't at work, he runs laps around the park. And when the rain is too heavy to run outside, he sits at his home desk and tears old newspaper into tiny pieces.

Outside, the winter weather peals against the windows, the month hastening forward to Christmas. His work ethic shifts from disinterest to full investment, and he completes editing the drafts of his latest assignments as quickly as they come. He starts to take his work home with him, poring through page after page, cup after cup of coffee. Still, he can't work out all that terrible energy, and one night, hurls an entire canister of coffee across the room, only to spend hours replacing the beans one by one.

He finishes the Pascal translation and submits it for review. His boss, Yamanami Keisuke, has the same gentleness and perception as his mythical namesake. He praises Takeru's diligence, but tells him in his subtle, elegant way that the project lacks thoroughness, a something that comes exclusively from time and patience. He tells him to step back and re-approach the manuscript with more thoughtfulness, and even gives him leave to work at home until the press release party scheduled for after Christmas. Unenthusiastic about this unprecedented vacation though Takeru is, Yamanami's gesture casts a small light in the weary darkness of his conscience for which he is grateful.

Takeru thus spends the next few days running miles to the brink of exhaustion, swimming laps at the company pool, and watching ungodly amounts of _Iron Chef_. He wishes, half seriously, that he would come down with some illness, but other than a few pounds shed, he's healthier than he could ever recall. Still, keeping busy has ebbed some of the frustration, and for the next few days, he feels a little better.

Then he remembers Miyako's Christmas party scheduled the day after next. He sits down haphazardly on his coffee table. No, it doesn't bother him. So he thinks.

The day is very long, and still somehow there aren't enough hours to fill it. Then, in the middle of making dinner, he compulsively hurls the coffee canister across the room again. This time, the beans are left where they lay, and within minutes the flat smells overwhelmingly like Mocha Sanani. It's seven o' clock in the evening. The coffee beans crunch under his feet as he treads heavily to the bedroom and goes to sleep. Slices of tomato and bell pepper dry unceremoniously on the counter. In the morning, they will look like scraps of a withered heart.

* * *

"_Oh_, excuse me." says Natusko. "_Obake-sama, _have you seen my son?"

"Hi, Mom." Says Takeru.

He takes the large file box from her hands and steps aside, deeply embarrassed somewhere in the tangles of his mind for his mother to see him and his apartment presently, but right now it doesn't matter. Natsuko, her neat yellow hair tucked behind her ear, walks through the spilled coffee beans as though she is walking on eggshells.

"Those are the leftover things from your old apartment. They've been hiding in the closet for years." She says, glancing dubiously down. "This isn't the nice Italian blend I gave you, is it?"

"No, no." Takeru sets the file box on the coffee table. "I'm sorry for all this. I haven't been…" He thinks, "I'm just a little under the weather."

"You don't need to excuse yourself. You work so hard, it's probably just stress." She finds a clear seat on the sofa. "Anyway, the building can take care of this quickly, if you let them know. Have you seen your brother, yet?"

Takeru takes a seat opposite to her and shakes his head.

"He and your nephew arrived yesterday."

He nods, meditatively. It is nearly a minute before he notices his mother's mild, yet scrutinizing eyes flickering over him. He must really look a state. Four in the afternoon and he is still wearing the exercise clothes from last night, shadows of the little facial hair he can grow scratching his chin and cheeks and all his bad dreams evident in his eyes.

She says, "A little under the weather, huh? That's all?"

He nods, looking out onto the overcast sky. "That's all."

She knows better than to seek answers from a stone, and leaves him alone. Takeru's embarrassment finally catches up with him, and he calls to have his apartment straightened up before he takes a shower. But the hot water makes him feel ill at ease. He dresses quickly and, despite the unpromising weather, decides to go by Yamato's apartment.

The brisk air is much more soothing than the shower as he walks toward the train station. Already, the city lights are flickering on as the dim sky dims further, a hazy orange-purple blanket just above the high-rises. He slows, then stops to consider it. It's too nosy by the metro, so he continues walking, following his ears until the bustle dies down reasonably enough and he finds himself standing on Nozomi Bridge.

He feels strange in the cold, electric air. His eyes follow the skyline down into the Pacific Ocean, as cloudy as the heavens above. He actually contemplates the jump. Definitely too low to kill him; he'd inevitably drown in the wide bank…

He grips the rail. What kind of thoughts are those? As if an answer to his question, he feels a hand deliberately brush his elbow, and a voice.

"Takeru."

There are 12,790,000 people in Tokyo, not including the thousands of tourists who arrive daily, yet who should he find there but Hikari, her brown eyes as wide and unclear as the overcast heavens. She stands stock still, wearing the last traces of a smile that vanished when she caught sight of his expression.

"Where did you come from?" He asks. His voice is hoarse, as if he hasn't used it in a thousand years.

She, on the other hand, seems uncharacteristically timid. "I was on my way to see you."

"You should have called first."

Hikari is visibly taken aback. He amends, "I mean I won't be home for a while."

"Where are you going?"

"Yamato's here from America."

"Oh! With Rin and Shuya?"

"With Shuya."

"Then let's go together, shall we?"

His insides are rebelling against his outsides. He takes two steps backward then shakes his head. "You know, I'd rather not. I'm…I don't actually feel too good. I'm coming down with something. It's probably better that I don't, on second thought."

"We'll just stop in quickly."

"I don't want…"

"I'd really like to see Shuya."

"So go on your own." He snaps.

Hikari stops, startled. He tries to think up some excuse but before he can, she shrugs.

"If you're not well, then we…you probably shouldn't."

Takeru turns back to the ocean, darkening with every minute. Then he clenches his eyes shut, tight as they will go. It's as if he can't even breathe.

Somehow, he manages, "I'll ask them to the Christmas Party. I'm sure Miyako would have invited them had she known they'd be here."

"Oh, good. I'll look forward to seeing them."

He attempts to blink out the feeling of suffocation to no avail, and chances a glimpse at her. Her unwavering brown eyes are fixed on him, hurt and sorrowful and guilty, too, though as to the guilt he can find no reason for it. None of these emotions move him the slightest. He turns back in the direction he came from.

"Hey, Takeru…" Her clumsy footsteps behind him sound as pathetic as he feels.

He hesitates. "I'm just not myself today. Sorry."

"But, wait…"

"See you later. Tomorrow." And he continues on without looking back, afraid of what he might see. It only takes a minute to realize Hikari hasn't followed him.

When he arrives back at his flat, he does truly feel sick. He steps over the ruins of clothes and coffee beans, into the bathroom where he promptly gulps down three aspirin tablets. Then he stands at his window. The clouds have hastened from orange to red. He pushes two unsteady hands through his hair, stares in further contemplation, reaches for the cellphone in his pocket.

Miyako answers after two rings. "Takeru, how have you been?"

"Better, I guess." He says. "I don't want to bother, I just wanted to know if I could bring a guest or two."

"Guests?" She inquired. "What kind of guests?"

"Well, Yamato and Shuya are—"

"Of course, _they're_ welcome."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing." She says. "I just thought you might do something stupid, well, because of…"

She trails off indefinitely, but he catches the sense of her meaning without missing a beat. "Anyway, never mind. You sound tired, by the way."

"I _am_ tired."

"Get some sleep tonight. I look forward to seeing you and Yamato and Shuya-chan tomorrow."

"Likewise. See you tomorrow."

He ends the call thinking. Then he sorts through his contacts and calls another number.

Doing the smart thing hasn't worked well at all. Maybe the stupid thing will work out better.

* * *

"Neeee, _arigatou_, Desuku-kun."

Takeru glances at her from the corner of his eye. "Are you going to call me that tonight?"

"I think it's very cute." Says Aoyama, pulling on his arm. "Besides, you _still_ call me Aoyama, even though I keep on saying…"

"Chiyo. Okay."

Chiyo smiles. "You're so cute."

Takeru tries to smile but can't quite bring himself to do it. He still feels rotten, but in a different, somehow more satisfying way. The elevator let them out onto Miyako and Ken's floor, and Takeru leads the way to the appropriate door. Even from the hallway, there is a muted buzz of commotion inside. Before he can even raise his hand to knock the door flies open and there is Miyako, hair curled and already pink-cheeked.

"Ahah! Got you!" She giggles. "Yamato and Shuya are already here."

Then her eyes fall upon Aoyama and the giggling curbs abruptly. Takeru can almost literally see the buzz fly out of her expression. At any other time, this would have been hilarious.

"Miyako, this is Aoyama Chiyo. She's one of my coworkers."

"So nice to meet you." Says Chiyo, grabbing his arm. "You must be the _old friend_."

Miyako's smile is so saccharine Takeru actually has to cough to keep from laughing. "I am. One of them. Please, come inside."

Chiyo enters first and Miyako takes that opportunity to grab Takeru's free arm and hold him back.

"This is the kind of 'something stupid' I was talking about." She whispers.

"I know." He says lamely back. There really is no defense against the truth.

"So," says Chiyo, finally relinquishing his arm, if only to smooth her mini-dress. "I finally get to meet you. How long have you known each other?"

"Almost fourteen years." Says Miyako, "Just a little after you were born."

And with that, Takeru excuses himself to the bar.

He is topping off a tall glass of vodka when Daisuke nearly leaps onto his back in hysterical laughter.

"Takeru! Takeru, Takeru!" Almost immediately, he smells beer and ramen. "I'm soooo glad to see you!"

Takeru takes a long drink of vodka with a wince. "I'll be glad to see you in about half-an-hour."

Daisuke is more than drunk enough to laugh it off. He slings his arm around Takeru's shoulder, his goofy smile impossibly maximized by alcohol.

"So, Hikari's here. And she's my girlfriend. Can you believe it? And it's all thanks to you. Really, you…you are…"

"Where's my brother?"

"Uh, I think he's…"

Takeru slides out from under his arm, grabs his drink, and mills into the crowd of people. There are at least twenty-five people in the medium-sized apartment, some known and some unknown to him, though they all chat together happily enough. He doesn't stop for any of them until he spots a familiar blonde sitting alone on the sofa.

"What are you doing all alone at a grown-up party?"

"Oji-chan." Says Shuya. "Did you know it's past my bedtime?"

"I'll bet it is. Where's your dad?"

"He's talking to Mommy."

"Mommy's here, too? Come on, let's go find them."

Balancing the drink in one hand, he lifts his nephew with the other and sifts once more through the party chatter. He sees Yamato and Mimi bickering animatedly on the balcony, the latter threatening to pour her champagne on the other.

"Am I interrupting?" Says Takeru.

Mimi lowers her glass on sight of him. "Takeru! Ohh, you're so tall!"

He smiles genuinely. "I haven't grown in years."

"Is that so?" She casts a dark glance at Yamato. "Maybe Yamato is shrinking in his old age."

"You're shrinking, Daddy?"

"No, no." Says Yamato, relieving him of the three-year-old. "Mommy is crazy."

"I'm not sure this is the best night for Shuya to be here." Says Takeru. "I mean, there's a _lot_ of alcohol."

Yamato glances at the drink in his hand. "I can see that."

Takeru reddens.

Mimi puts her hand on her hip. "A responsible father would have hired a sitter."

"Where's Rin?" asks Takeru.

"She's spending the weekend with my mom and dad while I get some errands done in Japan."

"When did you get in from London?"

"This afternoon. Talk about jet-lagged. So where is the girl you came in with?"

"Aoyama? She's…" He glances over his shoulder. "Hm, no idea."

"So are you two…"

Takeru takes another sip of his drink.

"Oh, I see." Says Mimi. Yamato looks at him curiously, then at the figure behind him. Takeru turns around.

"Hikari! I know I've already said this once tonight but you are really just too pretty. I want to be young again."

Hikari shakes her head. "You're not even thirty yet."

"But I feel so olddd." She makes a show of hobbling around on an imaginary cane.

Shuya laughs. "Mommy's crazy."

Mimi sends her son a funny look. "Alright Mister, I think it's time for you to Grandma and Grandpa's house. Say goodnight."

"Goodnight."

"Night-night, Shuya."

"You." Says Mimi, toward Yamato. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah, think I'll turn in too. Catch you guys later."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

And just like that, Takeru is alone with Hikari on the balcony.

She gives a little smile and he thinks she really is just too pretty.

"Are you feeling more yourself today?" She asks.

He shrugs, takes another drink and winces again.

"I feel like I haven't seen you at all in weeks."

"Maybe you've been too busy."

She frowns. "That's not true."

He shrugs again, then decides to rejoin the party. He opens the sliding door but Hikari, in a swift jerk of the arm, slides it shut again.

"Why are you being so short with me?"

"Am I?" He asks. "Sorry, I don't mean to be."

"You're so…" She sighs irascibly. "Just tell me. Just say it."

"What do you want me to say?"

"What's going on?" She demands. "I mean, why didn't you tell me about whats-her-face?"

He frowns darkly. "It's none of your business."

"Have you been seeing her long?"

"_It's none of your business._"

He forces the door open and storms back into the party. Hikari stares after him a second, then turns her gaze to the water view so her face can't be seen.

Takeru finds Aoyama sitting very close to Koushirou and complaining about all the noise.

"Chiyo, let's go."

She looks at him scathingly. "I'm not ready to go."

He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "Come on, I'm not letting you walk home alone."

"I've been alone so far." She says. "I think I can manage. Besides," Here, she smiles and takes Koushirou's arm. "Izumi-kun will take care of me."

Koushirou glances between them in surprise.

"Did Chiyo come here with you?"

Takeru hands him his drink, all the while shaking his head. "Don't worry about it."

He's so tired of it he doesn't bother to find Miyako or Ken. He simply slides on his shoes and continues out of the front door. As he's passing toward the elevator, he hears a low masculine mumbling. Curiosity gets the best of him. He glances around the opposite hallway to see Daisuke reclining against the wall, his shirt unbuttoned and his tie in his hand.

His glossy dark eyes look at him drowsily.

"I wanted to use the bathroom but I got lost."

Takeru sighs. "Party's back this way. You shouldn't fall asleep outside."

Daisuke nods, seemingly lost in thought for a second. Then he turns his gaze back to him, and Takeru thinks his expression seems a little sharper.

"I saw you talking to her. To Hikari. If you're in love with her, why did you…why did you…"

"I'm not…I'm not in love with her." He says.

"I saw you talking outside. You were both so angry. I know you're in love with her, so just stop bullshitting and tell me…why…"

"Would it have mattered if I love her or not?" Takeru asks quietly.

Daisuke blinks at him, thinkingly. Then he says, "I don't feel so good."

Takeru sighs. "Come on, let's get you back to the party."

He hefts Daisuke against his shoulder and guides him back to Miyako's door. After a brief struggle to let themselves in, they are greeted by the sounds of cheering and applause as the hosts kiss underneath a sprig of mistletoe, Miyako waving her left hand for all to see.

Takeru sets Daisuke in a chair and pats his shoulder.

"Takeru."

He glances up. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry." Daisuke looks at him and hiccups.

Takeru shakes his head. "Me too."

Then he turns out of the door and leaves.

In the next minute, Hikari finds Daisuke. "Where did Takeru go?"

"He went away." Says Daisuke somberly, his head lolling slightly to one side, then the other. "I told him I was sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"For…and because…we both love you, but he helped me and I…and I won. So I'm sorry."

Hikari bites her lip. Her heart starts racing in her chest. "Helped you?"

"Helped you? What do you mean, helped you?"

"Helped me, that's what I said." He sits up a little straighter and takes her hand. "I'm sorry. I'm drunk."

She sighs. "I know. Come on, let's go home."

She helps him put on his shoes, and after offering her finally congratulations to Miyako and Ken, helps him up and out of the house. As they are climbing into the taxi, she sees the woman Takeru had come with dragging Koushirou toward the metro station. She watches for a second, as if mesmerized, before at the urgency of the driver she closes the door.

Daisuke lops onto her shoulder as he puts his hand on hers.

"I love you. Always taking care of me."

"It's okay."

Through the window, she sees the two of them, the woman and Koushirou, pashing in the shadow of a high-rise, and feels a mixture of fear and relief.

Daisuke is still mumbling incoherently. "Who's gonna take care of me when…when I go for training…I'm gonna miss you…miss you so much…And you're gonna miss me, too."

She glances out at the Christmas lit streets and doesn't respond.

* * *

**End of Chapter IX.**

Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon, blah blah.

Some notes.

"_Obake-sama_, have you seen my son?" –_Obake-sama_ is a formal way of addressing a ghost.

The population statistic of Tokyo comes from January of 2009, grace à Wikipedia. Thanks to whatever twelve or thirteen-year-old wrote the page on Tokyo. Gotta love it.

I am both excited and scared to write the next chapter. As always, thank you for sticking with me. Your continual support and reviews are really encouraging, and without them, I probably wouldn't have made it even this far. It's just hard to write for some reason, but despite all appearances, I work on it pretty frequently and it's never far out of my thoughts.

If I can ever finish this story, I swear…I'll take a trip somewhere.

Thanks a million.


	10. Greed

X. Greed

* * *

Upon waking to an empty bed, Hikari feels an immediate sense of relief, but she catches herself, and consciously pushes those thoughts away. She reaches for her discarded night shirt and pulls it down over her head before sitting all the way up.

It's something of a small miracle to see Daisuke up earlier than ten o' clock. She hardly sleeps when he stays over because he tends to hog the bed, always lying in strange and crooked angles, and he snores, too.

Still blurry-eyed, she finds him repacking his suitcase for the third time.

"Did you forget something?" She yawns.

He stands, obviously dissatisfied, and returns to the bedside.

"I was trying to figure out a way to rearrange things so that I could take you with me."

She smiles. "I'm still too big, huh?"

He leans over her with a very light morning kiss. "No, you're perfect."

She feels guilty for being relieved when he wasn't in bed earlier, and soothes her culpability by kissing his forehead. Wearing his pressed dress shirt and black trousers, he nevertheless climbs into bed and lies across her legs, squirming like a newly-washed puppy.

"Even Okinawa will be cold without you." He says.

Hikari scoffs. "Once you feel the sun, you'll forget all about me."

He rolls over and looks up at her. "Do you want to clean my ears before I go?"

"You'll be late." She says flatly.

He sighs and stands up. His pressed shirt is already wrinkled. He picks up his suitcase and duffle bag, and her heart quickens inexplicably at the gesture. She climbs out of bed, pulling her nightshirt down as she follows his lumbering figure to the door.

He turns back. "Two weeks and three days, starting now."

He drops his things and grabs her around the waist.

"I want my Christmas kiss now and my New Years kiss when I come back."

She kisses him, then sighs into his shoulder. "I'll be lonely."

"You can visit Miyako, and Mimi-chan, Rin and Shuya, and…" He hesitates. Her ears perk to listen as her heart races with fear and anticipation of what he'll say.

"Even Takeru…" He says slowly, as though unsure of the words themselves. "I wouldn't be jealous if you wanted to see him."

They both know this is a blatant lie. But it stirs something in her, something without a name, and with her arms around his neck she kisses him.

He immediately tries to lift her night shirt over her head but she says, "You'll be late." and with a sigh, he breaks their kiss.

"You're no fun at all." And kissing her nose quickly, he hoists up all his bags and lets himself out.

She locks the door behind him, and rests her forehead on the wood paneling. It's strange, she thinks, how his absence already feels like regret.

* * *

She spends her new-found alone time catching up with her reading and taking pictures at her leisure for a change. The trick of working in your field of interest is maintaining that interest once you're forced to do it every day. After Christmas, she spends three consecutive days taking photographs of and from the giant Ferris wheel, whether early in the morning or in the middle of the night, and spends at least four rolls of film on its mystifying angles.

Miyako, when she meets her for lunch amidst her obsession, just smiles funnily.

"You're a strange bird sometimes, you know."

Hikari realizes that there's nothing she can really say to convince her otherwise, so she merely pouts, and pushes her pasta around with her fork.

"Haven't you ever been drawn to something mundane for no particular reason?"

She seems to think carefully. "Once, my brother had a mole on his neck that I swear was the spitting image of Morgan Freeman."

"Morgan Freeman…the actor?"

"Yes, it looked exactly like him."

Hikari's fork slides out of her hand and lands with a quiet thump on the table.

"But somehow, the Ferris wheel is a stranger obsession?"

Miyako shrugs. "It was the closest thing I could relate to your bizarre artistic tendencies. So, have you talked to Takeru since the Christmas party?"

She glances up quickly. "Why should I have?"

"I know that you're back with Daisuke now, but it's…" She sighs. "How can I say this? If it were just _some guy_ you used to pass the time, it wouldn't matter. But it wasn't. It was Takeru."

Hikari lifts her fork, and says coldly, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Miyako quiets.

She continues to push the pasta around.

"Anyway, he's the one who never wants to talk. He's just been really…" she sighs, "really hard to understand. Not like himself at all. Maybe it was that co-worker of his."

Miyako asks, "You really don't know why?"

Hikari looks up from her plate. "Why what?"

Miyako looks at her for a moment in silence.

"Strange bird." She says ultimately, and turns to ask for the check.

The more she thinks about the conversation, the more upset she gets. At first she's upset with Miyako, but the feeling fades almost immediately in realizing her friend had done nothing out of the ordinary, and though that should have been the end of it, thinking of the conversation leaves a lingering discomfort, so she decides not to think about it.

With the New Year just a couple of days away, Hikari instead devotes her energies to getting through the work rush and making some belated party plans. She'd been invited to a couple of high-end parties by some of her clients, fancy Ginza hotel affairs with big names and even bigger checkbooks, but none of them stand out in particular. Miyako and Ken are going for a quiet celebration out in the countryside; Yamato and Mimi have prior engagements; even her brother has vanished to spend the holiday in some tropical hideaway, leaving only an ambiguous automatic e-mail response as to his location.

Hikari goes so far as to ask her assistant Martin what his plans are.

"Well you know, Sadako Matsujiwa invited the entire studio to her party at the Park Hotel, she was so in love with her last session. Eiji and I booked a room there for the night."

She remembers that shoot very well. She had fought Ms. Matsujiwa endlessly over the artistic direction, one of her biggest pet peeves, but eventually struck a compromise that proved hugely beneficial for her reputation.

Martin continues, "That reminds me, I got a call for you this morning from Sho Iri's people. He's also having a spontaneous New Year thing and he insists you be there."

"Iri Sho?" She asks. An affluent model and entrepreneur, one the media had taken to calling Tokyo's own Bruce Wayne. She had taken a couple of pictures for him some months ago, but it was nothing out of the ordinary.

"He _insists_. Apparently, you made quite an impression." Martin says, a funny little sparkle of both envy and admiration in his tone of voice. "I think you should take the offer. Don't think me presumptuous, but you'd be crazy not to."

Hikari thinks a moment. It is the most appealing offer she's so far received.

"Would you mind telling them I'll be there, then?"

Martin nods. "I'll do it right away."

A mere five hours later, in the middle of her yoga routine, there is a knock on the door, and Hikari receives a hand-delivered invitation to Mr. Iri's New Year Party. She accepts it, more than slightly bewildered by the formality of it all, and wonders as she closes the door what exactly she's gotten herself into.

The invitation is printed on a square of thin black silk—though short-notice, Iri has spared no extravagance—and gives a brief detail of the location (the Mandarin Oriental) and the theme, a sort of ode to Qing Empire decadence, all black attire, with a silver hair ornament sporting a small emerald, apparently meant for her to wear.

At the bottom of the invitation, there is a note in succinct, but very slightly embellished hand-writing:

_Hikari,_

_Thank you for accepting my invitation at such short-notice._

_Since I'm prevented from escorting you myself, I insist you bring a guest._

_Sho_

She rereads the handwritten part twice over before a sinking finality settles in. That word 'insist' somehow carries a very heavy meaning.

She sets the invitation on her coffee table and thinks of calling Miyako to ask what she ought to do, but knows her answer will be the same as the solution she's devised in her head. So, before she can lose courage in face of too much thought, she grabs her cell phone and dials Takeru's phone number.

He doesn't answer, not immediately, but calls back just as she's preparing to leave a voice message.

But he remains utterly silent. She hesitates, clears her throat, and hesitates again.

"Takeru? Are you still mad at me?"

He says nothing. She sighs. "I'm calling because I'm invited to a New Year party and I need to bring a guest. Would like to bring a guest, I mean. Are you interested?"

She hears his breathing, but no words at all.

"Look, I'm not just calling you because I need someone. I haven't seen you since Christmas and that wasn't…the best time."

She trails off, hoping he'll say something. He doesn't.

She continues, "But I miss you. I do. And I'm sorry I've been busy with work and…new things, and…well, it's going to be one hell of a party, so if you don't have plans, do you think you'd like to go with me?"

She shuts her eyes, trying to bite down her embarrassment. Takeru must be relishing how foolish she sounds.

"I should mention that I won't go if you don't."

He has yet to say a word. She begins to wonder if he simply hung up the phone, but after another endless moment, he clears his throat.

"I don't have plans." He says.

She sighs. "So you'll come with me?"

Another brief silence. "Is Daisuke okay with it?"

The question catches her off-guard, though in retrospect, she can't quite imagine why.

"Yes, he actually told me to call you before he left."

She hears a funny, muffled sound then, like a quiet laughter, but she can't exactly be sure what it is.

"If he's okay with it," Takeru says softly, "then I'll go with you."

She feels a great rush of relief.

"That's great. It's the night after tomorrow. Obviously. I'll send you the details." She pauses, "Takeru?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." She says, and feels it so sincerely that she gets teary-eyed saying it.

"Yeah, of course." His voice, in contrast, is a little off-handed.

She hesitates a second before ending the call.

Somehow unable to find the strength to stand at just that moment, Hikari sinks deeper into the couch. There is a lingering sense of apprehension in every corner of her body. Her yoga routine forgotten, she instead flips through several television shows—an eating contest, a special on corrupt businessmen, a discourse on the American economic crisis. She idles through several more channels before setting down the remote and retreating to the shower.

When she emerges, wrapped in a towel and brushing her wet hair, the voice on the television piques her interest. She sits down on the couch. It's a program called "The Imaginary City." The voice belongs to an old European, dubbed in Japanese.

"What we, that is, what humans fail to realize is the Past is simply an invention; a by-product of the fiction by which we perceive the universe, the structured, endless sequence of events known as Time. However, this sequence in itself is a fabrication—a mean by which to determine other means."

Hikari listens, mesmerized.

"The truth of the matter is, we have only this minute, this second, this nanosecond, the infinitely small proportion that links one active moment to the next active moment, and that's all. The rest is an illusion. And memory, outside of its biological significance, has no more physical consequence in the stream of reality than would, say, our expectations."

The program cuts to a commercial. Lost in thought, she turns off the television.

* * *

Two days later to the hour, she is carefully arranging the emerald ornament in her hair. There is an odd familiarity to the ritual that she can't quite place. It hits her as she is locking the door to her apartment—it's Monday evening, and she's meeting Takeru. She actually laughs out loud.

Once downstairs, the doorman hails a taxi for her to take into Chuo, and despite holiday traffic, arrives in front of the Mandarin Oriental with ten minutes to spare. The air is brisk. She walks through crowds of well-dressed people and makes her way inside to the concierge's desk. The young woman must have recognized her attire because she immediately smiled and pulled a list from inside her desk.

"Your name?"

"Yagami Hikari."

She glances down. "Here we are. Your guest has already arrived. He's waiting over there."

The concierge looks up and immediately covers her mouth to hide her laughter. Hikari turns around, curious, until she sees Takeru posing with three or four teenage girls, no older than sixteen. They switch around, trade phones, pose again. Hikari laughs too; Takeru looks up and sees her—his expression changes ever slightly—before he excuses himself from the girls. She takes a moment to admire the fine cut of his black linen shirt, neatly lined with silk, on his tall, lean figure. She turns back to the concierge who, blushing red, appears to be admiring the same thing, and feels an unabashed swell of pride to call him her guest.

The concierge gives them ribbons to tie around their wrist.

"That will let you in. And here is your room key."

"Room key?"

"Yes. Iri-san has rented a room for each of his guests. Please enjoy your stay here at the Mandarin Oriental."

She points then to an elevator guarded by a solemn bouncer. As they walk toward it, Takeru says quietly,

"You look nice."

But he won't look at her. All the same, she smiles faintly. "Thanks."

Akin to the invitation, Iri Sho has spared no expense with the party itself. The suite is all windows, cleared of regular furniture and instead filled with Qing art, sculptures, hanging lanterns and hundreds of candles. In addition to these traditional highlights, there are champagne fountains, endless trays of appetizers, and women, dancing in enormous semi-transparent vases.

"Some friends, huh?" He says softly.

Hikari can sense without looking at him that Takeru is slightly overwhelmed, and she touches his arm. She waits for him to push her away, but he doesn't.

"Come on, let's find…"

"Hikari." They turn to see the attractive figure of Iri Sho wielding two glasses of champagne, as well as two identical women on both arms. "Honored you could make it on such short-notice."

He kisses her on both cheeks and heartily shakes Takeru's hand.

"I'm Sho." He says to Takeru, in English. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise." says Takeru, also in English. "This is some party."

"Oh, you like it? Just something I threw together. Listen," he says to Hikari, "get comfortable. If there's anything you want that you don't see here, let me know, we can get it here. And enjoy yourselves, we've still got a two hours until Midnight."

He hands them the glasses and waltzes off into the party.

"He's friendly." says Takeru.

"He's from America." She says. "As are you, apparently."

Takeru shrugs.

"Some friends." She says.

She takes a sip of champagne and smiles delightedly. "Oh, it's delicious!"

A small, but genuine smile peeks through his lips.

Hikari spends the majority of the party chatting with actors, models and socialites, some familiar and others she's never met, collecting each of their business cards, while Takeru, in line with his American persona, listens to conversation after conversation in broken English. Eventually, boredom forces him to reveal his fluency in Japanese, and despite the embarrassment of the other guests, Sho is delighted by the jest and crowns him Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, after which he decides wholeheartedly that no one is drunk enough and briefly turns the event into a drinking game.

It is no surprise then that by Midnight, everyone is hysterically drunk. Hikari now leans her weight almost exclusively on Takeru just to stand for the last ten seconds of the year. The suite shakes with noise and laughter, and the chanting of the party guests—ten, nine, eight, seven—and laughter as people exchange New Year kisses even before the year is up.

Six, five.

Hikari manages to stand on her own, turning to face him.

Four, three, two.

One.

The night sky explodes with fireworks, and from the ceiling, lanterns burst with yen, raining over the crowd. Everyone is kissing and mad scrambling for money, and the lights in the room turn a brilliant green, and Takeru is holding Hikari's arms, and they haven't moved an inch.

He leans down, hesitantly, and kisses her cheek.

"Happy New Year." His voice is barely audible above the chaos.

They still have yet to move. Hikari closes her eyes and tilts forward; her legs give out at the same time; and the next thing she knows, she's lying parallel in a hallway, and her eyelevel is four inches higher up than usual.

She struggles in vain to sit up. "Where are we going? Takeru?"

"To the room for a while, just until everything dies down. Can you stand up?"

She nods, holding her head, and he lets her carefully on her feet. She sways dangerously; steadying her with one arm, he uses the other to open the door.

It's small but by no means modest. She carefully, slowly takes off her shoes and sits on the bed, drunk and exhausted. Takeru, in the mean time, is rummaging through the mini-fridge. He opens a bottle of water and hands it to her.

"Some friends." He says, laughing.

"Some party." She says. "Why do I ever drink? Please say you're at least half as drunk as I am."

"I'm more than half as drunk as you are." He says, laughing still as he sits beside her. "Just more graceful."

She nudges him, then drinks more water. "Thank you. For coming."

"It's fun." He says.

She looks at him seriously. "Did you _really_ have nothing to do and that's why you came, or…"

"I came because you asked me to."

She can't think of anything to say. He urges her to drink more water, but she sets it on the night stand and leans instead on his shoulder.

He laughs. "Aren't you afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"That I'll take advantage of you."

Now she laughs. "You couldn't."

"You mean I wouldn't."

"Yeah." She says. "Besides, I wouldn't stop you."

He smiles. "You couldn't."

"Yeah." She giggles helplessly. "Shit, I'm drunk."

More laughter. She continues to lean on his shoulder, and lets her hand draw little designs in his palm. Then she says, a little cautiously,

"When we're not drunk anymore, please don't keep being mad at me."

He tries to smile it off. "I wasn't mad at you."

She nudges him again. "You're such a liar. And you're a bad liar, too." Her eyes close. "I really, really care about you. You're not just…some friends."

She stops to giggle, then continues. "You're Takeru. That means you're special to me."

She looks at him clearly. "So stop being mad."

He looks back at her and nods. Smiling faintly, she brushes her forehead lightly against his before she stands up.

"Now if you'll excuse me," she says, "I am going to the bathroom to be sick."

Which she does.

* * *

With the exception of New Year's morning, the week before Daisuke's return passes with strange peace. Takeru keeps his promise and stops acting cold toward her, and though he is too preoccupied with work to spend as much time together as before, they take a few lunch dates, and he accompanies her to the Ferris wheel on Saturday evening for an hour or so.

As they step off of the platform, Hikari's cell phone rings with a call from Okinawa. She steps away to answer.

"They extended training?"

"Don't remind me." Daisuke whines unhappily. "I'm sore all the way up to my earlobes."

"Then when do you fly back?"

"Friday," he pouts.

"That's not too bad."

"But I want my New Year kiss!" He laments. "I miss you so much, especially at night, I'm so…"

The music roars up, and Hikari has to move further away before she can hear anything.

"Where are you?" He asks.

"At the Ferris wheel. It's my new muse."

He laughs. "You're like a little kid. It's cute though."

Her smile wilts. She feels slightly put-off by that comment.

He sighs. "Alright, I'm going to bed. Early rise tomorrow. Hopefully I'll have a dream about you."

"Spare me the details." She says. "Good night."

She ends the call, and searches for Takeru among the hoards of people. She finds him starring up at the giant wheel, hands shoved into his pockets and a far away look in his eyes. She stares up at it beside him.

"Whatcha looking at?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Something about Ferris wheels make me wish I believed in magic. That's strange, right?"

She doesn't think it is at all. He reluctantly glances down at her. "How's Daisuke?"

"Delayed." She swings her purse over her shoulder. "His training got extended."

"Are you okay with that?"

She shrugs. "It is what it is. I mean, I'm not lonely."

He quickly looks away.

"Although," she continues, "it does damper my dinner plans for tomorrow night. We were supposed to double date with Miyako and Ken. I don't suppose you're interested?"

He shakes his head. "As romantic as that sounds…"

"Come on." She begs, pulling his arm. "I thought you weren't mad at me anymore."

"Mad? That has nothing to do with…" He rolls his eyes. "Fine. I'll come."

She interlaces her fingers and smiles. He gives her a withering look.

"You really don't care as long as you get your way, do you?"

"Not a bit." She says. "Let's ride the Ferris wheel again. Come on!"

* * *

At seven o' clock that Sunday, she runs into Takeru as he enters Miyako and Ken's apartment building.

"Hey, you're here."

"I'm here." He says lamely, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She pokes him in the rib. "You could be more excited."

"I could?"

She pokes him again.

They pass by the mailboxes and toward the elevator. Hikari hits the button.

"So." She says, stretching her arms forward. "When are we going to talk about why you were so mad at me two weeks ago?"

He looks at her mildly from the corner of his eye. "Not right now, that's for sure."

She puts on her best pout. "Are you still mad?"

"I wasn't mad…"

"Oh!" She stamps her foot. "Stop saying you weren't, I know that you're lying."

He sighs. "I _mean_ I wasn't mad at _you_."

"Then why were you so upset?"

He opens his mouth, then closes it and turns back to the elevator. "I'm not having this conversation."

The elevator finally arrives on the first floor. She glances quickly between it and the stair entrance.

"If I beat you to Miyako's apartment you have to tell me."

"No." He says flatly. "Besides, there's no way you could."

"I can and you _will_."

"Forget it."

The elevator door slides open and Takeru steps inside.

Hikari frowns darkly and steps into the elevator, moving to select the floor. But in a flash she hits the Emergency Stop and darts, fast as she can, toward the stairs. She can faintly here Takeru shout something disapproving as the door closes.

Miyako and Ken live on the eighth floor. She moves quickly, working not to trip over her boots, and stops on the fourth, fifth and sixth floor to hit the elevator button. By the time she reaches the eighth floor, she's ready to faint—but she arrives in front of the elevator doors a full ten seconds before they open to Takeru's startled eyes.

"See?" She says breathlessly. "Now you have to tell me."

He shakes his head. "I already said no."

She glares at him lethally, sure that she looks as betrayed as she presently feels. But his tone is different, somehow; less open to persuasion. She expels the last of her fatigue with an angry sigh, and has no words to say to him at all as they walk up to Miyako and Ken's door.

It's Ken who answers.

"There you are. You could have buzzed, we would have just come down."

"We didn't think about it." says Takeru.

Ken glances at Hikari's face and, seeing her expression, looks suspiciously between them. Miyako emerges from the apartment and locks the door.

"Okay, let's go." She links Hikari's arm with hers without waiting for the other's consent. "I hope this restaurant has Korean barbeque. Doesn't that sound good?"

Behind her, she hears Ken whisper something, to which Takeru responds, "Better not to ask."

* * *

The restaurant is called The Green Room. It's an eclectic place with a large bar full of twenty-somethings, with a huge Nordic dragon painted on the ceiling. Their server brings them to a soft-lit booth in the corner. Hikari purposefully sits on the opposite side from Takeru, leaving the girls on one end and the boys on the other.

There is an oppressive silence.

Ken drums his fingers on the table. "Cool place, huh."

"Yeah." says Miyako. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. "You know, I think we have to order our drinks from the bar? Ken?"

They retreat. Hikari watches them go, then returns her gaze to the table. Takeru shakes his head.

"You're being incredibly stupid right now."

"You're just incredibly stupid in general." She glowers at him. "Why won't you tell me?"

"Did it ever occur to you," he says tersely, "that _right now_ is just not a good time?"

"When's a good time, then?" she snaps. "You can't just be mad at someone and not tell them why."

"_I'm not mad at you._"

"But you _are_. You're still mad about something. If it's not me, then what is it?"

"I'm not…" He stops, choked up with words, "I'm not telling you here. Leave it alone."

She sits deadly still for a moment. Then she gets up and walks out of the restaurant.

Alone outside in the movement of the city, she feels the full heights of her irritation crawling out of her skin. She sits on a planter, stands again, paces a few steps, sits back down. She thinks of going home all together but Miyako appears and grabs her hands.

"_What_ is going on?" She asks.

Hikari is fighting an angry onslaught of tears, the ones you hate to fall because they make you feel weak. She takes a couple of deep breathes.

"Before, I said I didn't understand why Takeru was upset and you said 'you really don't know why'." She looks at Miyako clearly. "Why?"

Miyako hesitates, visibly torn, but finally takes a seat on the planter beside her.

"Kari…" she says slowly, "did you ever think that…Takeru might have feelings for you?"

Miyako looks at her earnestly. Her breath catches in her throat and her mind goes reeling in several directions at once, though thinking about it now, it is the answer she expected somewhere in the back of her mind.

"I thought…" she hesitates, "I thought maybe, but then…no. No, he didn't, he…"

"I've never talked to him about it, so I can't say for sure." She looks furtively toward the door, then back to her. "But I think, I _think_, that he's been in love with you for a very long time, and he's just…all mixed up about it. I think you both are."

Miyako smiles grimly. Hikari stares holes into her knees, and she squeezes her hands so tightly shut around her skirt that her knuckles blanch completely.

"I'm going to go back inside, okay?" She pats her hand. "Please come back."

Hikari nods and stands, following her in an overwhelmed silence back to the booth, where the boys sit in equal wordlessness.

Takeru looks at Hikari, but she can't meet his gaze. He then casts a meaningful glance at Miyako. She stares back at him, apologetic but resolved.

Ken laughs pathetically. "This isn't too much fun, is it?"

Hikari smiles, as convincingly as she can, and looks up. "I'm sorry. I'm…being a downer. We should have fun. This is the first night I've been out with the two of you since you got engaged. I think we should get have a round of celebration drinks."

"No drinks for you," says Takeru, also trying hard to smile. "I don't want to have to carry you home again."

She laughs softly, and though the mood is improved, she still can't face him entirely. Miyako orders her Korean barbeque, and they do have a round of drinks. They order two more for the newly-engaged, and the conversation grows increasingly animated.

Miyako's cheeks have turned their characteristic pink as she tells a story, gesturing wildly with her chopsticks.

"And of course it shouldn't have mattered, but then she got super angry, picks up the half a pork bun," she lifts a dripping piece of Korean barbeque from the platter, "and flings it at my head!"

As she says the word 'fling,' the meat flies out of her chopsticks and hits Takeru squarely in the chest, leaving a long dark smatter of sauce and oil on his light gray vest. Miyako drops her chopsticks and immediately covers her mouth.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!"

Takeru laughs, wiping it with a napkin. "Don't worry, it's not a big deal."

"No, no, it's super greasy, it'll stain!" She says. "You should go wash it off in the bathroom."

Takeru nods and stands. "Just with water?"

"Use soap," suggests Ken.

He leaves.

Miyako blushes terribly. "I feel really bad."

"He doesn't care about that kind of thing." says Hikari.

"I know, but still…"

Minutes pass, and Takeru has yet to return from the bathroom. Miyako gets up with the intention of going to help him but Hikari beats her to it.

"I'll go." She says. "You guys sit tight."

She wanders to the back of the restaurant, where she finds two unisex bathrooms sitting next to each other. The first is empty. She knocks on the door of the second.

"Takeru? Okay in there?"

He sighs through the door. "It's not coming out. I think the stain's getting bigger."

She hesitates. "I'm coming in."

"Don't, it's okay."

She rolls her eyes and opens the door.

He glances up, scrubbing the vest vociferously in half a sink of water. Hikari locks the door behind her. In doing so, however, she becomes super aware of herself, and the idea of being alone with him makes her turn red. She tries to draw attention away from her face, and says quietly, "Here, let me see it."

He hands it to her. The stain has gotten bigger, but is somewhat diluted. She takes a paper towel and dabs it futilely with soap and water.

Takeru stands back watching.

"Um, I'm sorry about earlier." He says.

She shrugs, keeping her eyes on the vest. "I'm the one who should be sorry. You're right; I was being incredibly stupid."

"There was just…a general air of stupidity at that point."

She sees him smiling at her from the mirror and her stomach kicks all the way up to her ribs.

"What did Miyako say to bring you back inside?" He asks.

She thinks her heart might stop.

"N-nothing. We'll um, just have to let it soak for a minute."

She plugs the drain and turns on the faucet, forcing the stained half of the vest under the stream of running water. As she does, Hikari feels, then sees, his hand cover hers in the sink.

"You're a bad liar, too, you know."

Just as she feels/sees his hand, she feels his other arm wrap itself around her shoulders, and his mouth come to rest beside her ear.

"I'm sorry." He says, meaningfully. "I promise I won't make the same mistakes again."

She can feel herself shaking inside and wonders, briefly, if she's shaking all over.

"Next time," continues Takeru, "if there is a next time, I…"

She turns around.

"There are no 'next times'. There's this second, this nanosecond; there's just…now."

She puts her hands on either side of his face. His eyes are bright and earnest.

"This bathroom exists outside of time and context." She says. "It's an alternate universe."

He almost laughs, obviously bewildered, but she holds his face steady and the change in his expression tells her he knows how serious she is.

"Whatever happens here, in this room, _will not exist once we leave_. Because it's an alternate universe. Do you understand?"

He nods dumbly. She pulls his face down to hers and they kiss. And kiss. And kiss.

Their bodies are suddenly pressed close, without a breath between them, and as his hand has done before in rare, uninhibited embrace, he traces her spine down to the top of her hips, sliding it underneath her tee-shirt to the tingling skin beneath. She strokes his neck and the sides of his face, the marvelous bones and skin, almost too soft for a man, but perfectly suited to him, and though this isn't the first time she has ever kissed him, she thinks she has never been so awed by his mouth and tongue moving in time with hers, or by anyone before.

He pushes her up onto the sink, where the steam from the running water on her back elicits a moan of delight she can hardly recognize in herself. She feels dizzy, excited, scared, as though in the midst of a near-death experience; terrifying and electric, bold, ever insatiable, dissatisfied even as she counts her blessings. It's extraordinary and it's simply not enough.

She unbuttons his shirt.

He retreats a breath's width, opens his eyes dreamily, but does nothing to stop her. She holds him by the belt loops and they kiss once more, and her shirt slides higher up her belly, and the skirt slides farther and farther up her thighs, and the last shreds of reason have all but dissipated when a small flood of steaming water startles her out of dreaming. Takeru immediately lifts her up from the sink overflowing and fumbles to turn off the faucet.

"Did I get wet?" She asks breathlessly.

"Only a little bit."

She reddens, and it is then that she knows with passionate regret that the moment has ended. The water's sluggish drip-drop from the counter to the floor is the only sound in the room. She takes that second to center herself, to put herself back together. Takeru says nothing.

"That w…" she falters, then starts again, finding herself once more unable to look at him, "that might have gone…not that I…"

"It doesn't matter, though, does it?" His tone, though quiet, is clearly wounded. "It all disappears when you walk out that door. Right?"

She lets her head hang, smiles regretfully, closes her eyes. "Yes, that's right."

He chuckles; it is a sound entirely devoid of mirth. In his pain, he must not realize that she's hurting just as much as he.

He picks up the soaking wet vest off the countertop.

"I need a minute." He says. "You should go back to the table."

She does. Outside of the bathroom door, she hears a loud, sudden smack, like a man punching a wall, and she nearly cries out and runs back inside. But instead, she wipes her eyes and returns to Miyako and Ken. They are talking closely, their hands clasped across the table, and they smile at her when she sits down, neverthewiser.

"Did it come out?" Ken asks.

"I think it's stained." is her quiet reply.

* * *

Miyako and Ken go home.

Takeru and Hikari begin to walk in the direction of their respective apartment buildings.

His nearness makes her heartbeat quick in her chest, and she feels flushed and warm despite the chill in the air. Takeru, his vest in a plastic bag swinging at his side, wets his mouth.

"I should probably take it to the drycleaner in the morning. Just in case."

"Mm, that's probably wise."

It is not very late, but the streets feel more empty than usual.

She finds herself counting the seconds until the corner where their paths divide. When they reach it, she literally bumps into him in surprise.

He looks down at her. There is, once again, a strange and unreadable expression in his eyes.

"Good night." He says.

"I feel like walking." She blurts out quickly, before she can even stop herself from saying it. "I'll walk you to your apartment."

He looks at her funnily. "Okay."

They walk in silence toward his apartment building. She clenches her eyes shut, rubbing her hands together in her coat. When they reach it, she feels faint with apprehension.

"Okay." He says. "Goodnight."

"Um…" she starts, then stops. He looks at her expectantly.

"Um…" she says again, "can I come upstairs? Just for a little bit? To warm up."

He nods slowly. They ride the elevator in silence, and enter his apartment without saying a word. She removes her shoes and quietly sits on the couch, wondering what in the hell she's doing. She pulls her coat off and rubs her hands together.

"Do you want something to drink? Tea? Coffee?"

"No, thanks." She says. She fidgets. What am I doing, she thinks.

What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?

She stands abruptly. "Well, I should go home, now. _Ja._"

She darts for the door, struggles with her shoes, then realizes she left her coat on the sofa and un-struggles with her shoes to retrieve it. But before she can turn back to the foyer, she bumps headlong into Takeru for the second time in fifteen minutes.

He holds her still by the shoulders. She stands there awkwardly, blushing and flustered. He lifts one hand to stroke her hair, and as he does, his face turns serious, and he watches her carefully.

"You want it all," he says, "but you can't have it. Even I can't give it to you."

She looks up at him guilelessly. "I don't want it all."

He laughs, and his smile is gentle, but very sad. "Maybe you don't know it, but you do."

She says nothing. Standing there in the dim light, her desire for him is suddenly overwhelming. She takes his hand in hers and kisses the knuckle.

"This room…" She begins.

"Save it." He deftly lifts her into his arms. "There's no way you're pretending this didn't happen."

She's getting the same swept-away feeling as she had in the bathroom, and her heart thunders so loud in her chest, it must be perfectly audible. He's right, of course: she could make believe if she wanted to, but this and everything else would inevitably stain.

As he takes her to the bedroom, she sees an imaginary city, populated with thought, with reason and fidelity. Daisuke is at the center, his goofy smile and shiny eyes, turning his back to show her something in the distance. He doesn't see the smoke, building among the high-rises.

Takeru lays her onto the bed, eyes closed as he meditates over her figure. He kisses her neck, slowly, traces the lines of her arms, down the center of her body, as if he's experiencing something spiritual.

"I love you so much," he says, "I might eat you alive."

"Then, please." She says, and arcs her head back.

Hikari sees briefly the last image of her invented world.

The delicate architecture, the trees, the people:

Everything in it is consumed with flames.

* * *

**End of Chapter X.**

Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon.

Notes, notes, notes.

The Mandarin Oriental is a real hotel that one day, when I am rich and famous (HAHAHA) I will stay at. In short, not any time soon.

The Monkey King is a character from one of the four classic Chinese novels _Journey to the West,_ which I have never read. Don't you just love all the thorough research I put into these stories?

That whole philosophical time jargon was something I made up. The more I read it, the less sense it makes.

Morgan Freeman, if you are reading this, I love your work.

That's all.

Dude. I haven't _not_ had writer's block in so long, I didn't think it was possible to put out two chapters in one week. Oh, and by the way, OMG FOR THE LONGEST CHAPTER EVER. They won't all be this way, I promise. Regardless of everything included here was necessary, it was certainly all very, insanely fun for me. Hopefully you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it (dare I hope?). Is it so wrong to live vicariously through your stories?

Don't answer that.

With any luck, I can get this bad boy finished before the year is out.

HAHA. HAHAHAHAH. Well, I can dream.

Thanks for reading, yo.


	11. Lust

XI. Lust

* * *

A careless breeze from the window rustles the blue printed dress suspended next to the valance. Tangled in his sheets, Takeru watches its idle, shapeless dance, it being without Hikari, and he feels its emptiness, being also without her.

Five days, and her presence has touched everything in his apartment. None of it belongs to him. Every part of his body scarred by her hands, her teeth, her tongue. Even the air, shivering with traces of their sighs, smells like her, tastes like her, sounds like her. In five days, she has devoured him completely, leaving only love's blanched skeleton behind. He is naked of everything, free of all defense and self-preservation. Five days, feeding no promises, washing themselves of morality, have also absolved him of sanity.

She becomes, in every way, perfect.

He becomes, in every way, corrupted.

* * *

The sixth day is Friday. They kiss but do not make love, then she is gone.

He lies unmoving for hours, conscious of nothing but smooth sunlight as it passes his body from fingertip to fingertip. He dresses at nightfall, washes the piles and piles of dishes in the sink, closes the windows, takes out the trash. He heaps her things in a pile on the bed. He checks his phone messages—twelve missed calls, all from work, and seven missed text messages, none from Hikari.

He shoves her things off the bed before he goes to sleep.

* * *

"Ne, Desuku-kun…"

Takeru glances up. It's Himura, lingering in his doorway, coquettishly fluttering his eyelashes. His dead-on impersonation of Aoyama should have been amusing. It would have been, but it wasn't.

"Himura, what's up?" He asks, returning to the Hearts game on his computer.

"He's so nonchalant." Says his coworker, sashaying into the office. "He even missed five work days without a word. We all thought he was dead. But he comes back on Monday like it's nothing at all. Yamanami's a nice guy, but I wonder how much he can take."

Takeru says nothing.

Himura sits on his desk, tsking softly. "Where were you anyway?"

"Do you wanna die?" He looks up ill-temperedly. "Go back to work already."

"Ahh, so scary." Himura shuffles for the door. "Just asking, just asking."

Takeru stares after him, briefly. He checks his phone. No messages. He returns to his game. Giving Himura even a little something to quiet the office gab would have made his life easier. He returns to his Hearts game. He can't be bothered.

"Desuku-san?"

He looks up, irritated. It's Momoka, Yamanami's peach-faced secretary.

"Yamanami-sama would like to see you in his office."

He nods, silent, and silent, she walks away. He saw this one coming.

Yamanami sits in silence for some minutes, calmly overlooking a draft and making idle notations in the margins. Takeru keeps his head slightly bowed, fixated on his kneecaps more out of convention than actual contrition. Without really acknowledging it, he had come to work today expecting to be fired, and already had the beginnings of a civil farewell in mind.

Yamanami sighs and looks up.

"Takaishi, may I…may I be frank with you?" He smiles a little bit. "Having lived in America, I'm sure you also learned to appreciate the strange freedom of Western expression."

Surprised but undemonstrative, Takeru merely nods.

"I…I am concerned about your behavior this past month. I'm sure I don't have to say aloud what I am referring to."

He nods again. Yamanami continues,

"But there's also an innate poetry in your work that isn't easy to find. Your empathy with the author resonates in your translation. It's a rare talent. That's why I'm giving you this."

There is a thin manuscript on his desk, which he slides over to him.

"_O Gato_?"

"The cat. It's a collection of short stories by Olavo Kikuchi, an old Brazilian _dekasegi_. We've never considered something like it before. Rough, non-traditional…but there's a power to it, a sexuality…"

Yamanami reddens suddenly, embarrassed by his passionate outburst.

"Anyway," He continues, "I wouldn't trust it with anyone else. Consider it a test."

The last word makes him look up abruptly. Yamanami is watching him over the thin frames of his glasses.

"Thank you, Takaishi."

Back in his office, Takeru flips through the first few pages without reading anything.

"Test, huh?"

He lets the manuscript fall carelessly from his fingers in a tumbled heap beside his desk and resumes his Hearts game.

* * *

Her winter legs are stretched across the coffee table. Unpolished toes flex leisurely. She reads. Her braided hair coils around the delicate skin of her neck, demure and teasing, stray hairs smoothed again and again by her absent-minded hands between turning pages.

"Open the window." She murmurs.

He does. It occurs to him that he is dreaming. He tiptoes around it, careful not to disturb his sleep. The sundress, hanging from the curtain rod, moves in the breeze.

"The sky is so blue today." He says softly. "We've been inside so long I forgot what it looks like."

The book sits on the table. Her warm arms wrap around his shoulders.

"It's not so blue as your eyes."

He turns his head and kisses her.

Someone knocks at the door.

She smiles impishly against him. "Should we answer?"

The knock resounds again.

Takeru wakes. His bedroom is pitch dark, the alarm clock covered by a pillow. He sits up, holding his head, and when the knocking comes again, he makes his way stumbling to the front door.

It's a flaxen-haired girl with big, hazel eyes.

"Ji-chan, did you know I beat my dad to the door?"

"Rin-chan…" He squints at the brightness of the hallway, "what are you doing here?"

"Daddy's coming." She says. "Carry me, please?"

He obeys his niece's whim and picks her up. Yamato comes around the corner, Shuya toddling quickly beside him.

"You woke up finally, huh? Put her down, she's getting too old to be carried."

Rin clings zealously to Takeru's neck and wails.

"It's fine." Says Takeru, smoothing her hair. "What time is it?"

"Ten."

"At night?"

"In the morning." He smirks. "The rugrats want English breakfast."

The children laugh/scream simultaneously, chanting "English breakfast, English breakfast". Yamato rolls his eyes.

Rin puts a small hand on either side of his face. "You should come too, Ji-chan."

"Engrish breakfast!" says Shuya.

"Where's Mimi?"

"Meeting us there. Are you coming?"

The children begin to chant "English Breakfast" again.

"Alright, alright." He sets Rin, protesting, on her feet. "Let me get dressed. Ten minutes."

"Ne, is that _your_ dress, Oji-chan?"

Eight eyes follow Shuya's finger to the cornflower blue dress, still suspended against the window. Without the breeze, it hangs lifeless from its hanger.

Rin laughs, "Nooo, _baka-na_! Oji doesn't wear dresses." Then she turns to him. "_Do_ you wear dresses, Ji-chan?"

Takeru is, for a second, arrested by some indistinct memory. Her hands on the side of his face, the braid down her neck, her arch in her back, tears flocking in her eyelashes. The blue dress, the blue dress. Her arms. Her smile.

_It's not so blue as your eyes._

Takeru whips back to reality. Yamato has laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Ten minutes." His brother says. His expression is casual, but only on the surface. "Let's wait for Oji-chan outside."

The sound of 'English breakfast, English breakfast' trails skipping through the hall.

Takeru cracks the front door and moves to the valance, meaning to yank the dress down. But he doesn't. Unable to force his fingers forward, he observes it a moment longer with some suppressed emotion before going to his bedroom for a change of clothes.

* * *

After breakfast and in spite of the cold, the children want to go to the beach, then the monorail, then the park, and Takeru encourages Mimi and Yamato to indulge them.

"After all," says Takeru, carrying Rin on his shoulders their second time around the monorail entrance, "you'll miss them when they're older."

Mimi laughs so loudly that a few passersby actually jump.

While Yamato takes Rin and Shuya to investigate a map of Palette Town, Mimi and Takeru sit for a moment while Mimi makes a phone call. Takeru listens, half-attentive to her conversation, half absorbing the noise of the city. It seems smaller, but also, more distant. The turning of the giant Ferris wheel, Hikari's obsession, seem to muffle all clear thoughts with dread of her, and longing. The sight recalls her intent, poise expression, crouching to her knees as she takes a photograph.

Click. The camera auto-winds itself, like magic.

_Magic, she asks. Do you believe in it?_

_He threads her fingers in his. I can't believe in anything but this._

Mimi ends the call, twirling her russet curls around one finger. She leans into his ear and asks, "Are you alright?"

He turns his head slightly.

"Huh? Alright?"

"You know what I mean." She says lightly. There is no pity or condescension in her voice. Takeru had always been able to talk to Mimi, however unlikely it seemed.

"Who told you?" He asks.

"Well, I haven't seen either of you in almost two weeks. Then Rin mentioned the dress—dead giveaway. Miyako also _might_ have said something."

Miyako. Of course. Takeru sighs. "I'm alright."

"Naughty." She smacks his shoulder and again, passing pedestrians give a start. "Lying to your Onee-chan?"

"I'm not." He protests quietly. "I've been working a lot."

"Have you seen her since…"

"No." He says. Mimi's mouth closes, her expression betraying concern and sympathy.

Takeru says, "I'm fine. Not exactly myself, but fine."

He looks at her from the corner of his eye. "Why? Do I not seem alright?"

She smiles now, sweetly, and there is love and compassion in her pretty features. "You're not fooling anyone, least of all yourself. If you need to talk, talk. If you need to be sad, be sad. If you need to be crazy, be crazy. Then once it's done, let it be done. Okay?"

She pats his head soothingly, then her expression changes and she leaps to her feet.

"Shuya! Rin, that's not the ice cream van! Don't run after…"

She catches up to the two bobbing blonde heads skipping along the sidewalk, just steps after Yamato. Of course, people stop to stare. Takeru watches them, amused. Then his gaze drifts. He squints at the darkening horizon, where the Giant Sky Ferris wheel blinds the stars with sunset light.

_I wish I believed in magic._

Someone bumps into his shoulder.

"Oh, sorry!" says a familiar voice. He glances up. Blue dress. Plait of brown hair braided around delicate white neck. He grabs her by the wrist.

Hikari turns around. "Ah! What are you doing?"

Takeru fixes his wide eyes on her, unable to speak. She struggles vainly against his grasp.

"What are you doing? Let go!"

_Let go! She laughs, squirming wildly as he begins to kiss her belly. It tickles! Takeru! Let go!_

I won't, he thinks. I won't, I won't.

He drops her wrist suddenly. He makes the horrifying realize that the bewildered young woman isn't Hikari at all. He stands immediately, then stumbles, dizzy.

"I'm sorry," he says, fumbling with English. "I thought you were someone else, I'm so sorry."

He turns away. He hears her say, "Is he a foreigner? What _was_ that?" before moving away, through the shops and stores to Yamato, Mimi and the children.

"I..."

_If you need to talk, talk. If you need to be crazy, be crazy._

He lifts his eyes, affixed with bizarre intention.

"I'm going." He says. "I'll see you later."

"Takeru?"

"Bye, Ji-chan!"

He weaves through the passersby and disappears. Yamato glances over at Mimi.

"Have you done a bad thing?"

"No. Well, I don't know." She says softly. "I don't think so, but I don't know."

* * *

He walks, and as he walks, he feels the city closing in on him. When had Odaiba become so stifling? Was it just Odaiba? Was it Tokyo? Was it Japan?

He holds his head, trying to shake himself of the increasing anxiety. His heart is pulsing audibly in his chest, full and red with blood. The dizziness hasn't quite left him, the muffled sounds, the visions. How present she is. Her smile in the streetlamps. Her breath, fogging up the storefronts. It's too much, it's too much. He can't get away. He can't let her go. He won't.

As he walks, he starts to call her, then stops. Seven days without a word from her. Is she with Daisuke? His stomach drops at the thought. He almost turns back but, resolute, driven, teetering on a hair above insanity, he continues into her apartment building. The elevator won't come. He takes the stairs.

_She laughs, the convenience store bag swinging on her arm as she climbs._

_I'll race you!_

He climbs after her. _I won't lose!_

_The taste of oranges in her mouth. Her summer-scented skin, white like flame._

_I'm burning up, Takeru. I'm burning alive._

_Takeru. _

He reaches her floor and he feels like his head will explode. Sick with desire. See her. Taste her. Want, want. Her lips. Inside, outside.

_Takeru._

"Takeru?"

Her face takes on a peculiar cast, and he hardly knows what to do. Unsure of how to proceed, and now dizzying and diluted on sight of her, his feelings sway dangerously, emptying here, refilling there, dirty and disoriented.

He can't speak.

"What is it?" She asks, almost impatiently.

He swallows carefully. "Is Daisuke here?"

"No…" The syllables slip slowly from her mouth, as though it is a ludicrous question.

His thoughts wheel back—is it a strange question?—and again, he hits a mental wall, increasingly unsteady. His gaze falls from hers and he tries to collect himself.

"Do you want to come inside?"

There is something unwelcoming in her voice, but unable to think clearly, he stumbles forward, reaching for his shoes.

_Takeru._

Abruptly, he stops and faces her. Her dark eyes, normally so transparent of her thoughts, are unreadable. It mystifies, then frightens him. The delicate balance sways and sways again.

"Why..." His voice comes out strained. "Why didn't you..."

His words trail off uncertainly, afraid of themselves.

Her eyes are so unyielding. Maybe it's those eyes that ultimately tip the balance.

He starts forward with his body again and backs her into a wall. Her mouth moves, her eyebrows raise; she says something like, "What are you doing?" or "Are you alright?" which his ears do not hear and he has no answer for besides.

He stops just short of pressing himself into her, and lays his hands along her jaw, hot with intensity to his cold palms. His body hums over her, close to shaking, his reason sputtering in a muddle of despair and desire that no sound thought can save.

"Your shoes…"

"Please don't say anything."

"Takeru—"

"Don't _talk!" _He slams his hands against the walls on either side of her. Now he is shaking. "_I'll go crazy if you do._"

Hikari purses her mouth shut.

He searches his brain for the words to let out these feelings and he cannot find them. He leans his head into his arm and shudders. "I don't know anymore."

He takes in a deep breath and looks down at her. Her eyes are watching him, round and unblinking, and he sees now shallow ponds of unshed tears.

"Do you love me?" He asks hoarsely.

She says, "I do."

These words, expanding in his ears, do not give him the elation he thought they might. He feels tears pooling in his eyes as well, and a great knot tangling in his throat.

"What else do you want me to say?" She asks.

She won't give an inch. Her eyes are so dark, he feels as swallowed as a bird must feel in the sky. Silent tears streak down his face, spotting her nose and cheeks with small moisture, and she doesn't move or react at all. He wishes his body were as broken as he feels, he would prefer it. He looks at her petite figure, her thin arms that in no lifetime could crush his bones, no matter how tightly she squeezed.

And yet, it is only this woman who makes him wish he were dead.

The emotions which had begun to collect themselves now duplicate, multiply, filling every corner of his existence. Blood rushes to his ears and the world, black behind his eyelids, spins on its heels. He pushes into her, suddenly, lifts her up against the wall. Picture frames clatter to the floor. He pulls her dress off her shoulders, kissing/biting the smooth plains of skin bristling beneath.

See her. Taste her. Want, want. Lips. Hands. Inside, outside. Sweet, sweet.

She rolls her forehead into the top of his hair and her arms, coiled around his neck, half-strangle the breath out of him.

"Takeru…"

He kisses her mouth. The metallic tang of blood tips his tongue; he cannot tell whose. His grasping, ravenous hands snap along her tights as he tugs them down.

"Listen…" Her breathlessness is hardly audible above the roar of his instincts, "Listen to me…"

He will not.

Drapes of her dress overflowing in his hands, he kisses his way down between her legs, into the apex of her body, disregarding all her feeble sighs and half-formed words, closing his eyes to protests that would be. He wants her to suffer and kisses her thusly. He wants her heart to ache in his hands and bleed and bleed.

He jerks open the buttons of her dress and here, Hikari shoves him off. Leaning against the wall, flushed and unkempt, her face still bears its last reserves of impassivity. Her eyes meet his plainly, two bold black planets. Hot tears make uncomely splatters on the floor. Her breath shivers from her parted lips, lips bruised dark pink. If she is frightened or unsure, she makes no show of it. She always was a girl with guts.

"Is this what you want?" She asks. "Me? Do you want me?"

Takeru stands over her, his animal countenance not lost under her stare. Perhaps, had he been further outside his own mind, he would have watched these two figures and not recognized them. But he is so lost in the whirl of his madness, he would not have recognized his own face in a mirror.

He says nothing in response, and without waiting she heaps the remainders of her clothes on the floor. Everything, everything is electric. His whole being exists within her brazen expression and her nakedness. It repulses him and stimulates him. It is agony not to be inside her.

He seizes her, runs his tongue along the salted tear tracks of her cheeks, presses his body against hers, into hers, crushes their oneness into the wall, along the floor. The world they create is blood red and bruised blue and grinding, gasping sounds. He makes delirious, love-stricken demands. Makes her swear she loves him, loves him more than Daisuke. Demands she swear to belong to him only.

She pulls his face to hers, dark eyes burning through him.

And she says,

"I don't belong to anyone."

* * *

He dresses by the faint urban glow leaking through the windows. His body is heavy and sore, visibly stained from the early evening by small bites and bruises.

Visions gone, sex satiated, he feels now potent disgust in his mind and his body. He wants to shower but can't bear to stay in the disarray of her apartment, surrounded by clamoring guilt and vivid dreams, or her lying in bed behind him, wide awake. He senses, rather than sees, her mutual shame and antipathy.

He carefully makes to stand.

"If you split now," her voice is quiet and detached, "it'll mean something different. It'll be…it'll be like we never loved at all."

His eyes trace the dim bedroom, out of the windows. City lights wash the sky of stars, leaving only black air and empty clouds, a bleak world.

"It wouldn't be true though." He says.

She lies in the very corner of his eyes, arms folded against her stomach beneath her, barely even breathing. Her skin is a faint-glowing blue.

"Do you love me?" He asks.

She purses her mouth but says nothing. He turns his head toward the door, smiles painfully, gets up and leaves.

_Don't leave me. Don't even close your eyes._

_Takeru. You're mine, right?_

He closes the door to the bedroom, slowly. He thinks he hears soft crying. Straining to listen, there is nothing but silence.

Fact meets fiction.

* * *

Another week passes, and he hears not a word from her. Yet another week passes and he stops checking his phone messages. Before too long, it's been a month. When he goes out, it's with his coworkers, and that isn't too often at all.

He turns in the first half of edits for _O Gato_. Yamanami calls him back into his office.

"Sir?"

"I just wanted some clarification on this passage." He says, pointing it out in the manuscript. "Why did you ask Kikuchi to change it from the original?"

"I changed it. Rather, I moved some words around with Kikuchi's approval. This scene really…emphasizes the poetry of the theme. I thought it should resonate more. This is only the preliminary edit, of course."

Yamanami rubs his temple. "Sit down, Takaishi."

Takeru sits.

"I don't need to see anymore of this. You remember, I told you to consider _O Gato_ a test."

"Yes, sir."

"Your work so far, Takaishi…" He thinks. "It's brilliant. Deep, seamless, sensitive to the author's intention. You've proven yourself, and I want to offer you a new position."

"New position…" Takeru repeats slowly.

"Our publishing house is expanding its horizons. Already, our commissioning editors are searching for more modern Japanese literature in this vein, more raw, more diversified, and we're opening a new branch."

Yamanami's expression warms. "I can't promise you full creative direction _yet_, but your past work, and your work so far…I'd like to see your ideas in this new branch."

Takeru sits back. "Thank you, Yamanami-sama."

"The new branch…" And here, he looks serious again. "The new branch will be centralized in America."

"America?"

"New York City, to be exact. You'd have to relocate. I think, given your experience living in America, the transition would be easy for you. Unless you have ties here in Tokyo. You'll forgive my intrusion, but remaining family, a significant other, perhaps…?"

His mouth shuts firmly. "No, sir. I'm honored to accept the position."

Yamanami smiles, reaching across the desk to clap his shoulder.

"You're in no rush to move out to America. You must have loose ends to complete here in Tokyo…"

"Not at all." Says Takeru softly. "I've been here less than a year—it will be easy to finish my work here in the city. I can leave as soon as necessary."

"I'll have Momoka-san work with Kobayashi about the details. It gives me great peace of mind to have you abroad on behalf of our publishing house."

Takeru bows slightly and leaves the office.

* * *

He makes immediate preparations. He gives his apartment notice of impending vacancy. He begins to clean and organize, noting what he'll need to ship and making plans to sell the rest.

The blue dress still, after all this time, hangs from the curtain rod in his living room. He pulls it from its hanger with little hesitation now.

_Takeru. Don't leave me._

He leaves the dress in a trash pile forming in the corner of his flat. He puts her sandals there, too, and the antique salt and pepper shakers she'd given him the first time she visited.

With at least a little something done, he decides to go to bed early. Even after a month, after a thousand runs through the washer, he still smells her in the thread of his sheets. Her wrists still beg his touch in the white walls.

Everything is still too much with her. Nothing belongs to him. Even his body still, sometimes, resonates with the sensation of her.

_Takeru, you're mine, right?_

_She pulls their bodies together._

_Don't leave me. Her voice cracks, full of tears. Not ever. Don't even close your eyes._

_He kisses her and never breaks his gaze._

_I won't, he says. Not for anything._

He'll be glad to leave those things behind.

* * *

**End of Chapter XI.**

Notes:

Yamanami Keisuke

I don't think I mentioned this before, but Takeru's boss Yamanami Keisuke is named after a famous samurai who was really patient and gentle, in addition to being a katana-wielding badass.

_dekasegi_

A Japanese term for a person of Japanese descent born in another country (usually somewhere in Latin America, Brazil, Chile, Argentina, etc.) who comes back to Japan to work. It's not the most PC term he could have used. In this case, it refers to a person of Japanese descent from Brazil who was granted dual-citizenship by the Japanese government and came back. It's actually a pretty cool idea—check it out sometime!

_O Gato_

"The Cat" in Portuguese. On a side note, I started doing research about the publishing process waaaaaay too late in the game. I mean granted, you'd think that since I've been writing this story for going on four years (FOUR YEARS?!) I'd have had some time to cover my ass a little more…yeah…

_Ji-chan_

Cutesy form of "Oji-san" meaning uncle. Reserved for adorable children, annoying women, and pets that talk.

_Baka-na!_

Means "That's silly!" Rin and Shuya, being raised by Japanese parents in England, switch between English and Japanese a lot. I had originally tried to conveyed this more clearly, but it was too confusing. Side note: they also think Takeru's American accent when he speaks English is funny. I cut that part out too.

AHMAHGAWD this chapter iz finully done! Can I just go grandma for a second and smother you all with kisses? It's my own special way of saying "thanks for the support," minus the choking smell of perfume and the perks of cookies. We've only got three chapters left now—it's down to the wire. BLARGH. Happy blargh? Sad blargh?

I can't tell at this point.

And can I just say one more time that I _hate_ FFN text formatting? Just so we're clear. Okay.


	12. Pride

XII. Pride

* * *

He arrives at her apartment Friday afternoon to find it empty and, though disappointed, he is not surprised.

_She must have just cleaned_, he thinks. _It's almost like she hasn't been living here._

The apartment is unusually chilly; Hikari runs cold and often keeps the heat on all day during the winter. He cranks up the heater, then sets the little Okinawan _shisa_ on the kitchen counter. He doesn't notice the numerous voicemails flashing on her answering machine.

Satisfied, he sits down at the kitchen table. There is a newspaper clipping—five days dated—and a violet bowl, left hurriedly, with hard rice stuck to the bottom of it. He pokes it idly. Then he tries to call her. Her phone is off. Antsy and growing impatient, he returns to the bedroom and stretches out on the bed, thinking he'll take a nap before she gets home.

_I should take off my clothes and wait under the covers_. This is his last thought before, smiling, he falls asleep.

* * *

Sunday.

The night air, drifting about the bedroom, is smooth and colorless. Hikari is pretending to be asleep and, though she's not sure, she thinks Takeru is doing the same. Is this a dream?

It's only been hours. The argument in the stairwell, Miyako's words, _Did you ever think he might have feelings for you?_, the kiss in bathroom, and then his bedroom, inside of herself and outside, too, right now. The sweet taste of Korean barbeque is still somewhere on the back of her tongue, but she's leapt through lifetimes of consciousness.

She wonders what time it is but cannot reasonably turn her head to check. She's afraid to move. Afraid to break the spell of the evening; that if she does, this world where she lies in Takeru's bed with Takeru's arms around her _is_ an alternate universe and _will_ disappear. It's terrifying.

"Are you awake?" She whispers. He doesn't answer.

She lies as still for as long as she can, but inevitably, restlessness gets the better of her. She rises slowly—his arms are reluctant to let her go, or maybe she is reluctant to move them—and goes to the bathroom. Hands wash face with the light off, lithe movement of wrist and neck in the Byzantium darkness. She studies her reflection closely, checking for wrinkles, fixing her hair, routines completed without forethought.

When she returns, Takeru is sitting up, eyes fixed on the wall. She reaches the bedside and he looks at her, startled suddenly, covers his face with his hands and then, to her surprise, laughs.

"I thought I was dreaming." He says. He's laughing so hard that he's almost crying.

Relief rushes through her. She lies on her stomach beside him as he leans back on the headboard to catch his breath.

"I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep."

"You were pretending before?" She asks softly.

He smiles, more to himself, and doesn't answer.

It is still for a moment, perfectly still. She observes him sideways, his form barely illuminated by the city's light, pale shadows cast over his handsome profile. She feels at peace watching him, the emotions in her body elevated to such incomprehensible volume they seem like silence.

"It'll be dawn soon." His voice is wistful.

She says, "What should we do today?"

"Today?" He won't look at her. "It's Monday."

"Museums will be closed." She goes on speaking. "We could go to the zoo, or…"

She crawls up beside him, smoothing the hair near his ears, laying her mouth on his bare shoulder. "Or we could just stay here today. What should we do?"

He looks at her carefully, and when she doesn't flinch, he gives an odd little smile. "We'll figure it out when it comes to that."

She nods.

The silence, at first neutral, grows increasingly wonders what he's thinking, if he's happy, like she thinks she is, what he meant when he "thought he was dreaming." Her peace of mind is slipping through her fingers, and her heart is just beginning to drum faster when her stomach rises above the tumult of thought with a long, meaningful growl.

She feels embarrassment prickling in her face.

"I…I'm hungry." She says.

He lifts his eyebrows. "Hungry? Right now?"

As if answering its brethren, his stomach growls too, a call among wild things, and they start to giggle.

"Time for breakfast, I guess." He says. "There's nothing in the house. We'll have to go out."

"And then the zoo, afterwards."

He hesitates to answer.

"I'd like to photograph the lions." She says matter-of-factly.

His mouth moves as though it's agitated to say something, but inevitably it doesn't. Takeru strokes her hair and worms out of bed.

"Get dressed." He says, and goes to the bathroom.

It takes a moment before she can will herself to move again. Outside, a river of pink light floods the bank of the horizon; a new day had crept in unobserved.

She closes one eye and frames it with her fingers.

"Lions, giraffes…" She says to the bathroom door. "And the peacocks, too! Let's photograph them all!"

* * *

Daisuke is in between R.E.M. cycles when the door-lock's click pulls him from slumber. He rubs his eyes and sits up, blinking through the crack in the door to see Hikari stumble inside.

She is slowly removing her shoes when he emerges from the bedroom smiling.

"Did you miss me?" He asks.

She looks up, startled, loses her balance and tips over into her shoes.

Daisuke laughs and immediately goes to help her up. It is here when he pulls her to her feet that he does consciously notice how much weight she's lost.

"What's going on?" He asks candidly. "You haven't been dieting for me, have you?"

She looks at him strangely. He laughs again, waiting for a response, and when one doesn't come, his expression starts to fall.

"Kari?"

Her eyes are searching earnestly all over his face. Then a mysterious something in her expression snaps. She says, "Excuse me," and rushes to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

"Can't wait to take a shower, huh? Don't you want dinner first?"

He grins, expecting to hear running water, but a muffled retching sound echoes through the bathroom door.

"Kari? Are you alright?" He knocks lightly, listening. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

"Don't come in." She says.

He frowns, remembering with discomfort their one-year anniversary. At least she wasn't screaming.

"Kari…" He whines, tapping the door. He listens for nearly five minutes, hearing nothing but her breath heaving against the floor tiles. "I'll…I'll get some dinner. Are you hungry? I'm going to pick up some ramen. I'll be back. Okay?"

He waits for response—none comes—then reluctantly leaves for the ramen shop a block or two away.

When he returns, the house is dark, and Hikari is curled up in bed.

"Hey." He sits on the overturned sheets and strokes her back. "I got the eggplant ramen because the guy said it helps digestion."

She stirs, laughs softly into the pillow, but when she looks up, he sees her eyes are swollen and glossy.

"Thank you. I'll eat it later. Right now I…I just want to sleep."

Her face disappears into her pillow once more. He hesitates, then subtly, lies behind her with his hand on her waist.

"I missed you so much." He says. "I was kind of hoping I could spend the night."

He kisses her neck, waits to see her response, tries again. If anything, she curls more into herself and moves even less.

Finally he gives up. Daisuke stands, collects his luggage and bagged-up ramen, peers into the dark doorway.

"I'm going then. Can I see you tomorrow?"

She only sighs into the pillow—a gesture of un-response he knows all too well—and with a small, frustrated sigh quits her apartment.

_Definitely should have waited under the covers naked_, he thinks as he steps into the elevator.

* * *

Wednesday.

"We stayed in bed all day." She says.

"Mmhmm."

"You didn't go to work."

"Uh-uh."

"I didn't either."

"No, you didn't."

She crawls over, slowly at first, and lays herself on top of him. His skin is warm from the open blinds, smooth linen-colored torso on lavender sheets. She kisses him lightly, and her fingers brush the stray hair from his eyes.

"Will they fire you?" She asks.

He thinks.

"Maybe. Probably. I don't care."

"Then…" She sits bestride him. "…we'll stay like this, forever and ever. Because you're mine, right? You belong to me."

She lays her mouth on his. Their bodies are young, lean and bare, happy to have their secrets eighteen floors above ground in a world guarded by clouds. The alarm-clock-radio on the nightstand plays:

_Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, bra—_

_La-la how the life goes on._

* * *

She won't see him. Well, not exactly. She's sleeping a lot again and won't answer his calls. She locks the top bolt from the inside without any explanations. No yells. No blocked phone messages. And when he does manage to see her, she goes immediately to sleep.

He decides to do some investigative work. He makes an "anonymous" call to the Kaen studio. Martin recognizes his voice, says she's out in Roppongi at the moment, that he suspects she isn't feeling well, though she hasn't let on _per say_. Asks if maybe she came down with something during her week off, and where did she go, anyway? Daisuke clumsily evades the question, embarrassed not to know the answer.

He calls Miyako, who doesn't know. Then he breaks down and calls Takeru and leaves a message, but never receives a response. Struggling not to overreact, Daisuke googles her symptoms—the first fifty results are depression, and the fifty-first is a thyroid imbalance. He prints out the results and plans an intervention.

He catches her in her doorway, just returning from work. It's the first time he's seen her awake in three days. She looks fine from the end of the hall, but recognizes the listlessness in her expression close up.

"Kari!" He calls. She looks up and doesn't flinch, but neither does she look terribly happy. He runs to catch up with her, afraid she'll duck inside before he can get to the door.

"Hikari, hi. How was work? Can I come inside?"

She purses her lips shut and opens the door. He kicks off his shoes and leans on the kitchen counter while she noses around the refrigerator.

"Daisuke, I'm really tired."

"Just listen for a minute." He says seriously. "Are you dieting because you're experiencing unusual weight gain? Because if you are, it might be…"

"I'm not dieting." She says.

"I'm just saying, it might be hypothermia. I mean, hypothyroidism. Underactive thyroid."

She takes out a pudding cup and sighs. "Maybe so."

Grabbing a spoon, she does not look at him as she begins her inevitable journey toward the bedroom. Daisuke swallows, increasingly hesitant and increasingly frantic, before finally, he says,

"Depression is also a symptom."

Hikari stops at the door. He continues uncertainly. "That's what's wrong, right? You're…you're depressed."

She fumbles with her pudding cup. "…I'm really tired. I don't want to talk about this."

"Is that why you didn't go to work last week?" He asks, now following her into the bedroom. Her eyes turn to his, bright with sudden intensity. "Were you sick?"

She hesitates a long time before she finally answers, "No." Her voice is clear and firm, and of course he can't tell exactly what she means. But he's touched a nerve—that much is certain. He waits for her to offer an explanation, but she doesn't. A bell is ringing in his ear. He knows he ought to leave it alone but, like a car spinning toward a wall, he can't stop himself.

"Was there an emergency?"

"No."

"Taichi? Your mom or dad?"

"No."

"Did you take a vacation? Go somewhere?"

Her expression is gleaming with angry tears, and seeing her this way hurts, hurts more than if she were weeping on the bathroom floor or even crying unabashedly in front of him. Her thin arms are faintly shaking, the tapioca cup bending with the tension in her fingers. He, in turn, braces the doorway with one hand and can't think of any more reasonable excuses. And he absolutely won't ask the unreasonable ones.

"Where were you? Tell me."

"No."

"Kari." He hesitates. "Are you lying to me?"

"No."

"Will you tell me where?"

Her voice is harsher. "No."

He punches the wall. "_Then you're lying!_"

Daisuke braces himself for the fall, for the onslaught of screams he predicts, for the slap he probably deserves, but it doesn't come. Her shaking suddenly subsides; her expression becomes listless and remote again. She lets her gaze fall to the ground and, to his horror, those tears stream quickly down her cheeks before disappearing in the palms of her hand. She wipes them again as she turns toward her bed.

"Go home. I'm tired." She sets the pudding on the nightstand and curls into bed, fully dressed. "Just go home."

"Why…" He takes three certain steps into the room, then two uncertain ones back, "Why do you always do this? Why won't you tell me?" He hears the helplessness in his own voice, but presses on, "I, you know…"

He jams his hands in his pockets, glowering. "You don't get it. I can do anything for you, anything! But you never…"

"_Go home!_" She shrieks into her pillow. "_Just go home!_"

He steps back again, confused and upset. "If I do, I'm not coming back. Not again."

"I don't care." She's weeping openly now. "I don't care, just go away. Go home. Just go home."

He doesn't know what to do then, so he simply puts on his shoes and leaves.

* * *

Thursday.

"So much rain…"

She slides the dress down her shoulders and steps out of the blue-soaked fabric, ringing her plaited hair. Cold water drips underneath her camisole, down her neck and spine. She removes those too. "How can it be clear one day then so rainy the next?"

She smiles over her shoulder at Takeru, watching her figure earnestly as he hangs the sopping wet dress up on the curtain rod. "You wanted to wear a sundress."

"I _had_ to." She insists.

"And you wouldn't bring an umbrella."

"It didn't match. It was a matter of principle."

He kisses her damp forehead, singing "All is Vanity" as he passes to the closet.

She stretches out across the bed, unclasps the pearl earrings and sets them on the bed table, begins to undo her hair. Her reflection in the dresser mirror, nude, glowing skin bejeweled by late-afternoon sun, recalls a Renaissance interpretation of Venus lounging in a seashell.

"What shall we do tomorrow?" She asks.

He doesn't answer. Hikari looks up inquisitively. He stares into the closet, fixed on the hanging clothes there; his eyes and face are completely stationary, searching, as though he were staring into some great distance. Then, finally, he comes back to himself. He glances at her, picks a tee-shirt at random and tugs the sopping wet one over his head.

"Tomorrow is Friday." He says.

"Does it matter what day it is?" She asks.

He looks up and smiles so slight it isn't a smile at all, and hands the dry shirt to her.

"I guess not." He is staring at her meaningfully, his eyes flickering with a seriousness she's sure she doesn't want to understand. He sits on the edge of the bed and, breathing easier out of the spell of his gaze, she puts on his shirt and leans her head on his shoulder, stroking his hair.

His face takes that far-off look again. She kisses his ear and softly, tentatively, says,

"You look like you're a million miles away."

"I'm right here." He says. He won't look at her.

"Are you sad?"

"No, not sad." He says. "It's a game. I'm only pretending."

There is such seriousness in his face.

Her heart, without rhyme or reason, begins to thump quicker in her chest.

The sun, partially eclipsed by high-rises, sinks into a cradle of gray and burnt orange clouds. It tears through the storm and sets on the smooth ocean mirror of the bay, reflecting summer light across the winter landscape. It warms her skin. Hair drifts from his forehead to hers, stirred by a sigh from the open window, fanning their skin like yellow palm leaves.

She sits on top of him. He is somber and thoughtful as he lies back, eyes perusing her face, her lips, pushes his hands through her hair to cradle her skull, fingers behind her ear, pulls her down into his kiss. She feels his body stirring with blood and bone, just like hers, so together, so One with him at this moment just by touching their lips, a feeling of completion surges through her, to every corner, too much to contain, and when she opens her eyes, they are full of tears.

"Takeru," her voice cracks, "Right now, I…"

Tears spill over from her cheeks onto his. "I just…I don't know what to do, I love you so much, I don't know what to do."

He sits up, alarmed. "You don't have to do anything."

She tries to hold the tears in with her hands, hiccups, slurs her words together. He folds his arms around her tightly, as if to protect her from a world only he can see.

"What do you want?" He asks. "What do you want me to do?"

"Don't leave me." She pleads. "Not ever. Don't even close your eyes."

"I won't." He sits back. His eyes are wide. "Not for anything."

She hiccups again. She believes him. They kiss breathlessly. More tears spill. She feels no shame for them. She keeps saying, "What should I do? What should I do?" and he has no more words for her, only his mouth and hands, only his open eyes, only her words echoed back to her, echoed back to him again. The words become "I love you, I love you," in endless exchange, uttered helplessly into her throat, her hair, her breasts, and they make love in the lavender sheets, and feel alive as the day becomes darkness.

When she wakes later, the night is long upon them. His little finger is curled around hers. And his eyes, steady in her gaze, are bright and soundless.

_Takeru, I don't know what to do._

_I love you so much. I don't know what to do._

_

* * *

_

Whether it's his conscience or his need for sexual gratification he cannot be sure, but two days after their fight, Daisuke is pacing outside of Pacific Towers Daiba, Hikari's apartment building, wondering what the hell he's going to say when he gets the nerve to go inside.

_Not_, he amends mentally, _that I lack any nerve_.

But the communication failure over the past week has at least encouraged him to think a little more about his approach, especially when she is so sensitive. Maybe she's on her period, or changed birth control, or something. It seemed somehow different than their fights before; she hadn't screamed or thrown anything, hadn't slammed any doors. And, his heartbeat quickened thinking about it, she had cried, which she never died, at least never in front of him. He wants to get to the bottom of it, but more importantly, he wants everything to go back to the way it was before, her slender body in his arms, her tender kisses, her gentle sighs succumbing to…

His thoughts trail off at the sight of a familiar blonde amidst the thin stream of dark-haired passersby. He stands from the smoker's bench near the sidewalk and waves a hand, but Takeru is inside the apartment building before he can even call his name. Daisuke sits back down with a huff.

_I'll wait until he comes out_, he thinks. She probably won't want to see anyone anyway.

But several minutes pass and Takeru doesn't reappear. Daisuke fidgets, agitated and growing apprehensive. He digs into the ramen he'd been saving for later, finishes it, needs to use the bathroom but waits still. Close to an hour passes and there is no sign of him. He breaks down and calls Hikari's cell, then her house phone, and she doesn't answer either.

I should go up there, he thinks, but his legs are rooted in place. Neither can he leave. He stares fixedly at the door, strains to find her window amongst the many windows of the twenty-eight story high-rise. He calls her house phone again, which rings and rings without anyone answering.

After another hour, Daisuke, his body stiff from the bench, goes back to his apartment. He sends Takeru a text, "What are you doing today? Can we meet?" which of course, he never responds to.

* * *

"You look awful."

Miyako sits down at the booth and begins to stir her parfait. Daisuke, having slept little the night before, imagines she is right.

His dark eyes narrow on her and the task at hand. "What do you know about Hikari and Takeru?"

She sits for a long moment with the spoon in her mouth. Then she swallows the yogurt down.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on."

"You're asking _me_?" She says incredulously. "Why aren't you asking one of them?"

Daisuke glowers. One frustrated hand runs through his dark-red hair, the other reaches for a french fry.

"What happened while I was gone?"

"Daisuke—"

"I know you know something. You'd tell me if you were my friend."

"I _am_ your friend, that's why I'm not saying anything." She stirs her parfait in irritated circles. "Obviously, it's between you three. It's none of my business."

"Never stopped you before."

A spoonful of yogurt splatters right across his face. Miyako sets the spoon back in the cup, red with fury. Daisuke's tongue flicks out to the corners of his mouth before wiping himself with a paper napkin.

"Fine, I deserved that."

"You're damn right you did." She says with a huff. Then, calmer, she asks, "What happened anyway?"

"Don't want to talk about it." Daisuke shovels another handful of french fries in his mouth. "I don't get it. What can't I do for her that Takeru can?"

Miyako leans her head on her hand. "Is this a rhetorical question?"

"What the hell does that mean?" He asks. "I'm asking a serious question."

She thinks briefly. "You promise not to get mad?"

Daisuke glances up and nods distractedly, pushing his lunch around with his fingers. She sighs.

"It's just that…Takeru and Hikari, they're very 'like' people. Very similar, I mean."

"So you're rooting for them?" He asks heatedly.

"I'm not 'rooting' for anyone." She interjects. "You know what I'm talking about. They get each other better than anyone. They always have, since we were kids."

He couldn't deny it, but it didn't make him any happier.

"Opposites attract too, you know."

"I know." She says, and smiles a little bit. "I'm marrying Ken, after all."

Daisuke smirks half-heartedly, sticking another fry in his mouth. "I guess there's hope then."

They idle for a few minutes, finish their meal. Daisuke stands and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"What are you going to do?" Miyako asks.

"I guess I'll talk to her."

She nods, watching him dubiously. Then she asks, "You're not mad, are you?"

"Maybe a little." He rubs his nose. "Anyway thanks for lunch." He stands and turns toward the door.

Miyako frowns, craning around to follow him. "You said you wouldn't get mad."

"I lied." He yells over his shoulder and walks out the door, leaving a few bewildered strangers staring after him.

* * *

Friday.

She doesn't know at all. Her heart tremors in her chest. She loves him so much she thinks she may die any second.

And Daisuke will come back today. In fact, the thought is very far from her mind. Right now, the fear of uncertainty presses the air from her lungs and leaves her feeling sick and breathless.

She realizes finally that she hadn't been to work in a week. Neither has she checked her cell phone or e-mail. She'll have to re-schedule everything for the next two months. Her head hurts from the thought of the millions of phone calls, the apologies and excuses she'd have to think up, the extra hours she's committed herself to by not being in the studio.

And then her eyes fall to Takeru again, still slumbering, and her worry quiets some.

_He looks so calm_, she thinks. _I wonder how he manages._

The aching, loving, dying feeling begins to throb inside her again. She tries to swallow it down, but it will not subside. She can't breathe watching him like this, can't breathe for his nearness. It chokes her up. It makes her dizzy.

She makes the decision to leave. Just until she's more in control, she thinks. She begins to feel more at ease. She'll go home and collect her thoughts, get everything back together. She loves him but she's too close to him. She needs a little distance to see everything clearly.

But—and fear washes over her heart again—she cannot shake the feeling that everything will disappear if she turns away. Is it real outside of this bed, this room? Can she wake up tomorrow without this body beside her?

She sighs, and when she does, his eyes open. They adjust to the light, a blue so pure it could pass for indigo, and with his magic skill, those bright discerning eyes seem to understand everything without a word.

She lays her head beside him and stares as he stares back, unmoving. Yes, he understands perfectly. Her pulse ticks like a clock.

She kisses him in silent agony.

And she says, "It's daylight." But she can't smile.

She returns home and when she does, Daisuke is there. But she won't face him, or can't, so she doesn't. She wakes the next morning alone in her bed, and she can't breathe but somehow she doesn't die. She makes herself rise, makes herself breakfast, makes last minute Saturday rearrangements. Days pass, bleeding one into the next, each a little worse than the one before. Each morning is a little harder to handle, harder to open her eyes, to fill her lungs with air. Waking time lengthens, to where she has to sleep thirteen hours to feel rested. Daisuke's presence alone fatigues her more than anything, and she finds herself sleeping to shut out the world, the one with him in it, and most especially, the one she left behind.

She dreams about Takeru. She seeks him in a house of mirrors, only to find he is chasing her. She flees, saved finally when she runs into his arms. He does not call or visit. She wishes he would. But there are devious, slinking fears that say otherwise.

_Do not stray_, they say. _Keep yourself safe._

So she does not call.

And then it happens. She is on her way to the store and there he is, half-crazed in his wordlessness, breathless from the stairs. Her emotions all surge up at once, vying for dominance, but she swallows them down, determined to protect herself, not to give in, not to lose control. But when he kisses her, burning mouth and hands to flesh and skin, he burns up all her defenses, too. He burns her inside and out. On the floor where they fuck, to the bed, scalding friction of hips and throats, his lips branded into her bones.

And afterward, how lost and dirty she feels, how ashamed, how afraid of what she's become. Even Love cannot overtake it. She's so ashamed she can't stop him from leaving, can't produce the words to make him stay. Can't tell him she loves him because of what she'd have to sacrifice, can't part with the little bit of her he hasn't touched, that little bit she thinks she loves more than she loves him, more than she loves anything.

A dream that she'd never say '_aishiteru_' and mean it, that she'd never love anyone enough to die for them, no man or woman or anyone on her island, whole and complete and perfect and alone.

_This is what you wanted_, she thinks.

The words are so hard to swallow. How she wishes they'd stick in her throat and suffocate her.

* * *

An unexpected conference gets him away for a week, which is good distraction, at least. Daisuke doesn't tell Hikari where he's going and she doesn't call, but this is not surprising. He comes back to Tokyo calmer, more calculated. He stops by her house that evening, unannounced.

He is secretly afraid of what he'll find, but she is alone. Her eyes alight with mild surprise when she answers the door. He asks if they can talk. She nods, sits at the kitchen table with her hands folded, and he kicks off his shoes and sits with her.

"How is everything?" He asks, after a beat of awkward silence.

"Fine." Her voice is impassive and unexpressive.

"I…" He wets his mouth, trying to recall his course of action. "I'm sorry I haven't been around. There was a Division 2 conference in Kumamoto, so…"

"Oh." She says.

"They took the whole team out for _basashi_. Killoran—you met Colin, right?—got sick when he found out what it was."

"Oh." She says again.

He hesitates. "I…I missed you while I was gone."

Hikari says nothing at all, simply stares at him, so he goes on.

"I wanted to talk to you about…" His words dry up; he looks down at his hands on the table. "I slept with someone in Kumamoto. A woman."

He can't look at her but she doesn't say anything, either. "She was…she didn't mean anything to me. The whole team got drunk and went out…"

As he trails off, he finally finds the courage to look up. She is staring at him, hard but otherwise unexpressive. He looks at his hands again.

"Why are you telling me this?" She asks.

He looks up. "What?"

"Why are you telling me this? I wouldn't have found out."

He tries to make his face impassive too, but isn't sure if it's working.

"I wanted to lay all the cards on the table. Be completely honest with you."

She frowns a little bit and his eyes, earnest and wanting, fixate on her small mouth.

"Do you…" He asks in a small voice, "Do you forgive me?"

She looks at him for a beat, then sighs. "Of course."

He breathes an exaggerated sigh of relief. "That's such a load off my mind."

Now he glances at her furtively. "I felt so guilty, I thought you'd never forgive me. And…and if there's anything you have to say, now, I'll forgive you, no matter what."

Her face recedes once more into impassivity.

"Thank you for being honest." She says.

He clenches his fists underneath the table, then tries his second plan.

"About our relationship, I…I think we should take it slower. I'm busy, you're busy…it just seems like we both need a little space. Don't you think?"

"Whatever you want." She says. "I'm getting tired—"

"We're still together though. I mean, I'm not breaking up with you so you don't…don't have to worry."

She looks at him and her expression softens.

His heart swells when she _almost_ smiles, and he wants to sweep her up into his arms, but remembering with regret now the words just spoken, he nods and stands.

"I'm…I guess I'll get going then. But I'll call you later. Sometime. Maybe."

Hesitating, waiting for her to ask him to stay, he is once more disappointed when she doesn't say anything. He pushes his chair out from the table and stands, moves to the foyer in awkward silence, struggles to put on his tennis shoes and is almost out of the door when her voice cries out,

"Daisuke…"

He turns so hard he almost loses his balance. She is still sitting at the table. Her face betrays nothing except a small twinge of her eyebrows, as though she's fighting something, what it is, he can't tell.

"You're a good man." She turns her face him. Her eyes are glossy and bright. "You know that, right?"

"Kari…"

He rushes, tripping over his own feet, to her side and the table, kisses her mouth, feels with mixed horror and delight a new wetness on her cheeks, tries to embrace her, draw her to him, but she shakes her head and keeps shaking her head.

"I can't, I can't, I'm sorry, I can't." And she stands on her own, wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry, Daisuke. Go home."

"Hikari…"

She shakes her head and clenches her eyes shut, and like the first flicker of light in a room with no electricity, for one moment he is able to read her expression clearly—fear, incomprehensible though it is but unmistakable. His stomach twists and he stumbles backwards out of the room. Before he knows it, he is in the stairwell on his way to the street level, heart hammering, gagging for the tightness in his throat.

Upstairs in her apartment, Hikari tries to press the tears back into her eyes, to control her sobs. She wonders what will become of her. She is afraid, too afraid even to turn off the lights. The hands of her sins are around her throat, and she can't breathe for it, can't breathe but never seems to die, no, no matter how she struggles one way or the other. Lying in her bed in this world she created. She sees it so clearly around her and can find no way out.

Across town, Takeru sits among boxes, packed up but yet to be sealed. The alarm-clock-radio plays:

_Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, bra_

_La-la how the life goes on._

And he recalls singing it against her mouth.

His throat tightens. Still, he feels nothing but emptiness.

* * *

End of Chapter XII.

NOTES:

1) Okinawan_ shisa_

Decorative lion-dog sculptures, little characters in Okinawan folklore. Like gargoyles, they function to ward off evil spirits, apparently via cuteness.

2) "Can't wait to take a shower, huh? Don't you want dinner first?"

In doing some (again, much too late) research on sex and dating, taking a shower before and after _ahemsexualpastimesahem_ is a cultural norm. Daisuke therefore interprets her apparent eagerness to take a shower as apparent eagerness to…well, you get the idea.

_3) Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da_

Excellent song by the Beatles, straight off the White Album. If you didn't know that, for shame! More seriously, it's great and you should give it a listen.

_4) Aishiteru_

"I love you," the phrase non-Japanese speakers learn to say after _konnichiwa, sayonara_, _kawaii_ and "Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto." While truly _aishiteru_ does mean "I love you", _suki_ and _daisuki_, loosely translated as "like" or "really like (big like)," are the more common and polite ways for Japanese speakers to confess their most intimate of emotions. _Aishiteru_ is extremely frank and therefore is more like "I would die for you." It's my interpretation that it's a little heavy, and not something even married couples go throwing around. This was definitely a note already _somewhere_, but whatever.

5) Division 2

Japan League Division 2, or J League, is the second division professional soccer league in Japan. In the realm of this story, Daisuke plays for a thusly unnamed division 2 soccer league.

6) "They took the whole team out for _basashi._"

Raw horse meat, apparently not uncommon, and particularly popular in Kumamoto. Poor Seabiscuit. Kidding.

ANNNNNGGGGGSSSSSSSTTT! It burns us! I can't hold it in anymore. Next chapter will be up in the next couple of days. Take that bit of down time to get some aloe vera. Ugh. I miss being a comedic writer. ;_;


	13. Temperence

XIII. Temperance

* * *

They don't break up, not immediately. Daisuke sees her less and less. She won't argue with him, even when he tries to bait her. He moves around furniture and leaves little messes in the kitchen. She says nothing. She may not even notice. Sometimes, she smiles, responds, laughs a little, she is almost normal. Other times, she seems distracted, distant, isolated. When she sleeps with him, she's always somewhere else, staring into a world existing behind him, one that he will never see. She sleeps for hours, naps during the day, and all of her facial expressions look like impressionist interpretations of her former vivacity.

It bothers him. He starts to think back to his return from Okinawa, the week shrouded in mystery, how Hikari had locked herself in the bathroom and cried and slept and cried, how everything had changed. The thought pulses in his brain, as acutely as a migraine.

And finally, he is forced to speculate on that which he had deemed unreasonable, those infinite parallels he had insisted where unrelated. Hikari is depressed and he can think of no reason why except that she hasn't seen Takeru, but she _had_, that night, and he never saw him leave. Takeru won't return his phone calls or text messages. Even Miyako won't give him the slightest clue, which is more suspect than anything. The thoughts drive him around and around in circles toward a destination he would rather die than dream of. But the pieces, little by little, sneak into his brain, and even he cannot stop it.

The week after Valentine's Day, he is cutting by the shoreline from the train station when his stomach gives a strong, swift kick. Takeru is jogging along the seaside. His heartbeat quickens and a lump rises in his throat. Two thoughts, to act or not to act, rise up, fighting for dominance. Ultimately Daisuke calls to him, and when he doesn't stop, jogs briskly to his side.

Takeru stops, breathing hard, takes his earphones out. "Daisuke."

"Long time no see." Daisuke puts arms behind his head to catch his breath, though he is far from winded. "How've you been?"

"Fine." He says reluctantly. "Busy."

"How are Shuya and Rin?"

"Mimi took them to England last week."

"I see." Daisuke drops his arms to his side, fingers fidgeting. "I just got back from Kumamoto for J League Division 2 Conference."

He hesitates. "Hikari's well."

Takeru's breathing shallows, and he closes his mouth. If Daisuke had been paying more attention, he might have recognized the gesture as one of Hikari's own. But there are dangerous ideas preoccupying his thoughts now, rapidly filling space, so much so he cannot notice these little details.

"When was the last time you saw her?" He pretends to count back. "A month ago, right? It's been a while."

Takeru wipes his forehead with his arm, but doesn't break his gaze. "I guess."

Daisuke laughs sardonically. "You guess, huh? You're not sure?"

They stare each other down for a moment longer, then Takeru shakes his head and starts to put his earphones back in. Daisuke pushes his shoulder to get his attention.

"Hey." He says, "Don't go yet. Let's catch up."

"I think we've caught up enough." Says Takeru icily. "I'll see you around."

"Why are you running away, huh?" He takes a confrontational step forward. "Do you have somewhere to be? Or maybe you have something to hide?"

Takeru glares. "Stop trying to pick a fight. We're not kids anymore."

"Answer the question."

"I'm not playing your stupid game!"

Daisuke steps in his way and shoves him again. This time, Takeru shoves him back. They grapple for a moment, then Daisuke heaves forward and with a collective gasp from the scattered few on the sidewalk, they are wrestling on the ground. The boys roll around for a minute with a couple of clumsy punches and swear words. The struggle leads them off the walking path down into the grass. Eventually it is Takeru who gains the upper hand and pushes him surely off.

They struggle to their feet, keeping wary distance. Takeru's left cheek is bright red and Daisuke has the beginnings of a bloody nose.

"What the hell's the matter with you?"

"_Fuck you_." Daisuke spits. "Always acting so high and noble and above everything, when you're just as dirty and low-down as the rest of us. Even lower, you piece of shit liar. What did you and Hikari do while I was gone, huh? What'd you do?"

He takes in big harsh breaths of air and his eyes sting. "Never mind. Fuck. I don't want to know."

Takeru breathes into the back of his hand without saying a word.

Daisuke presses the palm of his hand into his eyes, swings at empty air, paces. The people walking through the park move reluctantly on, worried and whispering amongst themselves.

When he turns to Takeru again, there is a glimmer of pain and betrayal in his expression.

"Why did you help me if you were going to turn around and…"

"If you knew that I loved her," Takeru asks in a low voice, "why did you ask for my help?"

Daisuke looks at him steadily, but in all the reeling and deduction of thought, he cannot come up with a decent answer. Takeru only shakes his head.

"It's not that simple, is it."

He sits on the grass, pushing a hand through his hair. Daisuke continues to pace restlessly.

"She won't let me help her. It's your fault." His voice is breaking, and his dark gaze flickers over him with a bold mixture of emotion. "Hikari's all messed up, and she…I think she's just _waiting_ to be saved, but she doesn't want me to do it, she wants, she…"

"She doesn't know what she wants." Takeru says simply.

Daisuke stands over him, grabbing the collar of his shirt.

"You get it? You understand what I'm trying to say?"

Takeru doesn't struggle. "I can't do anything."

His hold loosens. There is visible desperation. "Can't? That's the best you've got?"

"I'm going back to America." He stands up, brushing the clinging grass and sand from his arms and sighs. "So she'll be your responsibility."

His eyes get round and he frowns. "America?"

"This Thursday." Takeru goes on to say. "That's what you want too, right? Everybody will be satisfied then."

Daisuke's mouth moves but he can't form any sound.

"Take care of her." Takeru says, putting his headphones back in his ears. He rubs his bruised cheek with the back of his hand. "She probably needs you more than she realizes. Anyway, see you."

Up the path he goes and jogs away. Daisuke voice finally returns to him.

"You bastard!" He yells. Of course it doesn't do any good.

* * *

Later, Daisuke calls Miyako out for coffee to ask if she knew about Takeru moving back to America. She is just as surprised.

"He hasn't said anything to me at all. Back to America? Really?" Her ungloved hands fold around her coffee mug with thoughtful hesitation. "Does…does Hikari know?"

Daisuke's mouth goes tight-lipped and shrugs.

He expects Miyako to lecture him about doing the right thing, but she doesn't. Her hazel-eyes are fixed into her coffee seriously.

"Hmm." She says. "She probably doesn't. And it might be for the better."

"Better?" Daisuke asks, betraying his own interest.

Miyako looks up. "Well, what good can come of it? For anyone?"

He doesn't know either. He puts his head down on the table.

She touches his hair. "Hey, come on. Cheer up. Everything happens for a reason."

Daisuke lifts his head suddenly.

"Are you rooting for Team Daisuke now?"

"I told you, I'm not rooting for anyone." She says. "If anything, I'm on Team Hikari."

"Everyone's on Team Hikari." He grumbles and puts his head back on the table.

* * *

"You're really doing this, huh?" says Yamato. "You've thought it all through?"

Takeru looks at him impassively over his beer. "It's a good opportunity."

"Bullshit." His older brother says. "What do you care about it?"

Takeru's expression darkens. "I don't know what you mean."

Yamato sips his own beer. "It's rash, that's all."

"What's rash about it?" Takeru snaps. He pauses slightly, "And if it is, so what? Does it matter?"

Yamato's subtly impassioned expression reverts back to nonchalance.

"I guess it doesn't." He says softly.

"Hey, you two, _Kato _and_ Danzo._ Already drinking without me?" The tall figure of their father appears, taking a seat among them at the table. "And without even the courtesy to order something for your old man. What sons of mine I've raised!"

"Mom raised us." Yamato says tritely. Takeru nods.

"Obviously." Hiroaki grunts. "Where is she? Here yet?"

"Stepped out to make a call." Says Takeru.

"Okay." Hiroaki gives his cheek a solid poke with his index finger. "Where'd you get that shiner?"

Takeru forces an innocent smile.

"Jogging accident."

Natsuko returns then. She acknowledges Hiroaki with a small smile before resuming the seat across from him. "Have we already ordered?"

"Not yet." Says Yamato.

She nods, taking a modest sip of red wine. Hiroaki himself steals a swig of Yamato's beer and leans back in his chair.

"So, my youngest," he says, "I heard you're moving back to America."

"It's a promotion." Says Takeru.

"A promotion in only ten months." Natsuko sighs. "My sons are too ambitious. I never see them."

She gives Yamato in particular a meaningful glance.

The subject of her gaze quickly looks away. "I gave you _grandchildren_."

She seems to consider this, then looks at Takeru, whose eyes widen. "What is this?"

"It's fine, you've got plenty of time." Hiroaki claps his shoulder. "Play the field like Papa did, but try to marry Japanese."

Everyone save Hiroaki collectively rolls their eyes.

"Dad…"

"Not this again…"

"Hear me out." He says, tapping his fork on the table. "No grandfather adores his grandchildren more than I love Rin and Shuya. But for future reference, Takeru, look for someone…"

"_Yamato nadeshiko_." The boys chorused. "Ideal Japanese beauty, we get it."

"We've been divorced more than twenty years," She quips to herself darkly, "and I _still_ take offense to these things."

"Takeru's children will probably look as foreign as we do." Says Yamato.

Takeru sighs. "Let's talk about my children when I have them."

"I want a little girl with long black hair." Hideaki tries to call the waiter to no avail, partially smiling and partially frowning. "Like Gozen Tomoe."

"Like Sadako from _The Ring._" Says Yamato.

"Your father is the last surviving _bushi_ in metropolitan Tokyo."

Hideaki gives up with the waiter and sighs. "Yagami Hikari is a good example."

The table falls eerily silent.

Natsuko takes a drink of water and looks down.

Hideaki looks confusedly amongst them. "What?"

"Silence is the flower." Says Yamato.

Takeru's smile is vaguely wistful. "She's nothing like that."

* * *

On Wednesday, Daisuke goes to see Hikari. It's late. He hopes she'll be asleep but surprisingly she is awake, sketching ideas for a shoot the next day. He had kind of hoped she wouldn't be, awake that is. When she answers the door, he holds for a beat and feels his courage evaporating. There's a lump in his throat as resistant as a live bird, next to impossible to swallow down. He kisses her cheek, all the while feeling strangled by it.

"I'm not staying long. I just came to, because…I wanted to…" He sighs and looks at her seriously. "There's um…"

"What?"

"I…" He expels the air of his lungs in one breath. "Hikari there's…I need to speak to you. There's someone else. I want to break up. I'm sorry."

Over the past month, her expressiveness has faded considerably; she looks as concerned as her muted face will allow. "Someone else?"

"Yeah." He crosses his arms. "I don't really want to talk about it with you, I don't…want to upset you. But I want to be with this other person, I've decided."

She stands, still and wordless. Curiosity lifts his eyes from the kitchen walls to her face; it flickers with many nameless emotions, but none of them resemble anger or sadness.

"Do you…" He asks quietly, "Do you forgive me?"

She stares. Her brown eyes soften; she looks human again. Then she slowly nods, and with a leap he knows she is looking at him for the first time in weeks.

He loves her suddenly, overwhelmingly, but for the first time, the feeling gives him weight, a weight he's never felt before. He can feel the emotion changing its shape inside of him. There is no fire in it, no fervor. It makes him feel older. It is growing or shrinking, or _something_, only one of many things in this moment he cannot verbalize. He feels his age for the first time, and with it, delicate grief.

"That's…that's pretty much all I wanted to say."

He haltingly draws her forward into a hug and tries to breathe her in all at once.

"I still love you." He tells her softly.

Daisuke bites back the moisture in his eyes when he feels her nod against his neck, her own face warm and wet.

Suddenly unsure of himself, he releases her and turns toward the door. He hesitates at the knob, watching his fingers in serious deliberation.

Then he forces another lump down his throat.

"Takeru is going back to America for good." He looks over his shoulder. "I thought…I thought you…"

He can't make himself finish the sentence. He shuts the door quickly and heads for the elevator, his hands shoved in his pockets. Behind him, he can hear the door crack slightly. No footsteps follow, no voice begs his return.

Either way, he doesn't turn around.

* * *

Yamanami-san, as a token of his gratitude, sends a team of movers to pick up those few boxes and personal belongings for shipment to America. Momoka says they'll be in New York early Saturday morning, about a day after his arrival, and apologizes for the inconvenience.

His flat had been pre-furnished to save him the trouble of buying everything himself once he moved to Tokyo, and now except for the tidiness, does not look very different. Neither his mother nor his father can see him off to the airport, though Hiroaki had called the night before sounding a bit teary and more than a bit drunk. Natsuko and Yamato come just before his taxi arrives to wish him well on his way. His mother lectures him before she gets a little quiet and reserved, as she always does when she is sad, gives him a small hug and a book she'd picked out for his flight.

Yamato programs a few of his own New York contacts into Takeru's phone, and tells him he'll be out that way in a month's time. Then he gives his obligatory "final look," a look Takeru knows well enough to mean "You're really going to run away, huh?" and subsequently ignores. And within the hour, he and his suitcase and his book are in a taxi driving toward Narita Airport, the urban cityscape whipping past over the bay, where the water is the same steely-eyed blue as the skyscrapers.

In Urayasu, Hikari is squinting into the sky for passing airplanes. One of the fashion interns apologizes and shuts the blinds.

"Yagami-san, we're ready to shoot."

She stares at the darkened window. Her hand presses her heart down.

"I need a minute." The intern looks concerned, so she smiles. "Have Martin check on the lights."

She slips out of the backdoor onto a smoker's square. The building surrounds it completely, leaving only a small window of open air seventy feet up. And above it, over the lowering sun, an airplane creeps by toward the west. A red line in a blue sky. Her throat constricts and her vision tilts a little. Maybe there's still time. Not now, but one day. Maybe there's still time for them.

The back door opens slowly.

"Hikari?"

She turns. It's Martin.

"Everything okay?" He asks.

She pulls everything back into herself, smiles her brave smile, indiscernible from any other except by those discerning blue eyes now very distant in her memory.

"I'm fine. Everything's going to be fine." She says. "Let's get to work then."

There are no next-times. There is only this second, this nano-second.

There is just now.

Takeru takes his seat with a long sigh.

"You just made it." Says a passing attendant. "We're about to taxi right now. Please fasten your seatbelt. Make sure all electronic devices are switched off."

He nods, feeling around in his jacket pocket for his cell phone. He reaches it, switches it off, finds a small rectangle of paper stuck in a crease. He unfolds it carefully and reads.

"Honest hearts produce honest actions."

He looks out of the window. The city is in the far-off horizon, its movements silent, a blue line in the red sky.

He folds the paper in his hands.

We are liars and cowards.

We cheat and steal, we deceive ourselves and others. We sit when we should rise, turn away when we should look, run when we should be still. As such, we are not happy.

But life goes on. We shed our sins in time. We forget our troubles. We open the cages of memory. And years from now, unburdened by humanity, we will transcend reality.

We will become angelic.

* * *

End of Chapter XIII.

NOTES:

1) Kato Danzo

A famous ninja of ancient Japanese yore. Yamato and Takeru are named after Prince Yamatotakeru, legendary general, also a ninja. It's their patriotic father's (i.e. my) play on Japanese history and their names.

2) _Yamato nadeshiko_

Personification of 'ideal beauty of Japanese women,' combining _Yamato_ (ancient Japan) and nadeshiko (frilled carnation). Characteristics include quiet, humble, kind, subservient, domestic, wise, chaste, etc.. So yeah, pretty much the opposite of Hikari.

3) Gozen Tomoe

Or to Westerners like me, Tomoe Gozen. Famous, one of very few female samurai. Tomoe Gozen was beautiful as well as an incredible warrior and skilled horseman.

4) Sadako from _The Ring_.

Main character from the famous Japanese horror flick _Ringu_. Long creepy hair. Lives in a well. Yuck.

5) "Your father is the last surviving _bushi_ in metropolitan Tokyo."

_Bushi_ is a follower of _bushido_, the creed of the samurai. Natsuko is making fun of her ex-husband's apparent fascination with ancient Japan.

6) "Silence is the flower."

_Iwanu ga hana_, literally "not-speaking is the flower." Yamato lectures his father's big mouth with a classic Japanese proverb. Bam.

* * *

There's still one more chapter. I'll get it out soon. Thanks, team.


	14. Hope

XIV.

Hope

* * *

The side door of the warehouse opens, pushing bitter Winter out of the foyer. With the barrier gone, a terrific cacophony of sound barrels through the relative desolation, some jumbled mélange of music and conversation screaming almost against the high stone and metallic structures of Montréal's industrial park, loud enough almost to blow Hikari over. It isn't so much the noise that compels her backwards as the woman who answers the door.

"Hey, you found it! Salut, hello!"

Suyin, with an artful sort of violence, pulls her inside and shuts out the chill. She is beaming, a fountain of incomprehensible drunken French-Chinese babble as she takes Hikari's arm with one hand and the gifted wine bottle in the other. Then with an extravagant breath, she manages, "It's great you stopped by, even if it's just for a little while."

"I'm sorry I can't stay longer." says Hikari. "I'm just on this crazy schedule and..."

"Don't apologize, it's all Stéphane's idea anyway."

Suyin leads her upstairs, where a square Bauhaus-style hallway leads to a thumping, dancing swirl of lights. The music is infinitely louder than before; Hikari can distinguish faceless, moving bodies through the darkness, clouds of cigarette smoke drifting like mist, figures grinding against tables piled high with empty glass bottles, and behind the dance floor, a yellow kitchen glow through French doors. Suyin leads her toward it through the madness, their conversation escalated to a scream against the loud, all-consuming music.

"Where is he?"

"Talking business." Says Suyin, weaving in and out of people.

"Business? Stéphane?"

"I told myself I'm going to marry an artist, expecting to be poor forever, and he turns out to be some kind of mogul in disguise."

She pulls Kari finally through the French doors and shuts them, instantly blotting the noise of the party at least to a dull pulse. There are much fewer people here, and with the fireplace ablaze, it is warm and welcoming.

Suyin approaches two tall figures and lays a hand on one's shoulder, "Husband, I've found someone for you."

Stéphane, the taller of the two, a dark, agreeable-looking Frenchman, laughs with delight on sight of Hikari.

"Oho, here finally!" His hug actually lifts her off the ground, "Can it be? Am I dreaming?"

"Should I pinch you and see?" She teases.

"You're a tease. We never see you because you're too busy and don't like us."

She laughs, "Oh come on, Stéphane."

"Yes, okay, I know. We'll be seeing more of you soon enough. But I'm glad you stopped by before you're headed back. Oh actually," He turns to his companion, "you're from Japan too, aren't you?"

The heartbeat that escalates suddenly in her chest is twice as loud as the music. This man, tall, dark blonde, almond-eyed, looks like Takeru, but looks distinctly different, too. Is it him, really? Doubt twists in her stomach. It isn't so strange to see his face sometimes, peeking out through the features of strangers.

She extends a reluctant hand. "Hello. I'm Kari."

He shakes it, and their eyes meet again, four portals of immeasurable gravity, hers black as night sky, his bright as daylight, and with a jolt she recognizes him. Takeru then laughs inexplicably—inexplicable to Stéphane and Suyin at any rate—and says,

"TK. Nice to meet you."

"Kari's a photographer." Stéphane tells him. "We met at this New Year Party in Tokyo, wasn't it, a long time ago, managed to keep in contact, no thanks to _this one_ (he gestures toward Hikari), the rest is just a love story. You've been in Europe awhile though now, haven't you, Kari? London?"

"Lisbon." She says. Stéphane lays a hand on TK's chest and shakes him playfully.

"Now this brave man, this charming man, he deserves the Cross of Valour for agreeing to be my copy editor." He slaps Takeru's shoulder. "Certainly a step down from the magazine venture, but we'll be working closely. Kari, you've got to see this guy's magazine. _Growl_—it's amazing. Have you heard of it?"

Suyin pulls his arm. "We all need celebratory drinks. Do you want anything? TK? Kari?"

They both decline. The couple tarries off, and at length Takeru says it's a bit warm and suggests they wander outside for a bit. They pass again through the thumping dance floor and hallway, out the side door, and when the door is closed, she observes him for a long minute, not saying a word. It is ultimately he who breaks the silence:

"Lisbon, huh?" He says, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

There is a perceptible level of reserve in his countenance, and painfully she smiles, reigning in vain the abundant emotion overpowering her other sensibilities.

"I wasn't looking for anything with a name." She says.

He grins, turning his attention to the empty alley with a distant eye. Maybe it's not him. It's possible. There remains so little of what she recognizes. His hair is longer, his clothes are different, his voice and accent have changed. But even his air is unfamiliar. She rubs her hands on her arms, debating on whether to duck inside for her coat.

Instead, she asks: "Do you still live in New York City?"

"Nope. I'm here now." He looks back at her. "I moved almost four months ago."

"It must have been hard to leave it behind."

"It's easier than you'd think." There, suddenly, his expression when he faces her looks like it used to. But it passes quickly on. She glances around the corner, shuffling her feet, and turning back, catches him studying her. He quickly looks away.

She smiles a little bit. "Do I have something on my face?"

He fiddles around in his hoodie pockets to fight off the embarrassment. "No, you just…" He grins, too, mostly to himself. "You look different."

"What's different?"

"Your clothes, your hair, I don't know."

The wind rattles through, reminding her that she's out in the cold with her arms bare and her head exposed. She rubs her hands over her fingers, her fingers over her arms, then her arms over her ears.

"Do you want to go back inside?"

"Not yet." She says.

He pulls his jacket off, and while she protests, she ultimately slides into the dark pink cotton, arms swimming in the warm largeness of it. "Thank you," she says.

"No problem." He stares at her again, this time without hiding it. "It's a good different."

She smiles. "Does it match what I'm wearing?"

"Not that." He sounds exasperated. "You."

"You've changed, too." She remarks.

He seems surprised. "I haven't changed."

"Take it from someone who remembers." She says wryly. "It's not bad, just different."

"I guess it was inevitable."

"It always is." She tentatively reaches up and brushes his hair back from his face. He goes stock still and her hand retreats, embarrassed. After only moments of wearing it, she slides the hoodie off her shoulders and returns it to him.

"Let's go back inside." She says. "Stéphane and Suyin are probably wondering where we went."

She opens the side door halfway before he stops her, cold hand to her shoulder.

"Not yet." He says.

She lets the door fall shut. He offers her the hoodie but she declines, and though he shivers underneath his tee-shirt, he doesn't wear it, either. He neither looks at her nor speaks to her for a minute, maybe two. Then he says,

"You're going back?"

"To Japan? Yes."

"I haven't been home in years."

"So I've been told." She says. "You always did like to stay away."

He smiles; it is real and familiar. "Some things don't change."

His eyes that fall down on hers deepen in their blueness.

"That's a different kind of inevitable." She says.

He nods.

"It's funny, though, don't you think?" She wets her lips, all the colder for it. She doesn't know what she's trying to say, exactly. "I can't tell if I know you or not. Time passes, you become a different person, you experience the world differently, but…"

"It happens to everyone."

"I know, but…love, you know? Some people stay in love their whole lives. It's frightening, isn't it? It's as if, just when you think you've outgrown it, you realize…"

She trails off, having said more than she intended. If she's betrayed her own thoughts though, he doesn't seem to notice.

Takeru puts his hands in his pocket, deliberating. "I can't explain it either, but I understand."

He's watching the light play on the warehouse wall. "Certainty is the hardest thing to grasp. Faith, hope, love, they're hard to believe in. But sometimes they don't change, and that…that's a different kind of inevitable we face."

"We?" She asks.

"Me."

His eyes catch hers. His voice is low, quiet even in the stillness of the industrial park.

"All of it," he says, "is still the same today. I'm certain that won't change."

He reaches out; softly his thumb traces brow bone to cheek, holds there, studies her, then his arm drops lifeless, back to his side. Sighing suddenly, he takes a step back. There is silence once more in the brightly-lit night, unmoving too, but for the snowy chill blowing through the concrete walls and Hikari, trembling. He starts to wrap the coat around her shoulders.

"Here, you're freezing."

"Stop, please." She says, closing her eyes tight.

She inhales deeply, and when she exhales again, a breath of white heat expels from her mouth and water slithers down her cheeks, gathered and quickly brushed away by her own icy fingers. She looks up at him with those polished black stones called eyes flickering, their darkest and most genuine hue.

"I wanted to remember it. So, thank you." She says.

Takeru nods. He puts his arms over his head, staring up into the blue-gray starless night. Her gaze follows his, then she says,

"I should go."

He coughs and nods again, eyes still fixed on heaven. She tugs the door open, dithers, then glances over her shoulder.

"Me too." She says.

He looks at her. The corner of her mouth lifts, just a little. "I'm the same."

The door in one hand, Hikari extends the other, brushing those stray gold strands from his eyes. Then, as he had done, she traces the brow bone to cheek and holds there. Then her hand falls; she slips inside, and the door clicks shut after her.

Takeru stares at the door, where like before, the pulsing thump of dance music reverberates softly from inside, connected to but separated from the ice-gray pavement of the industrial park. He takes a few steps forward, making to reach for the door. Then, grunting swiftly, he turns back, sighs, and kicks the wall instead. This is a mistake. With a wince, he is hissing, limps in a small circle and, puffing like a train, pulls his hoodie on and rubs his arms vigorously.

"Fuck." He says. "Fuck, fuck."

He shakes his head, glaring, dissatisfied, and is actually gearing up to kick the wall again when the side door re-opens.

"—don't have to walk me out, guys…"

"No, no, we'll see you off properly. Oh, here's one more! TK, back me up." Stéphane's arm ropes Takeru in by the neck. "You live in Plateau, okay. Suyin thinks Kari should live in _Outremont_. She's crazy, right?"

"Stéphane, _please_." Suyin, leaning on Kari, stamps her foot. "I don't have anything against Plateau, but we're supposed to be having a party, not talking real estate…"

"I'm only saying."

Takeru looks questioningly between all three persons congregated around the side door.

"…what?"

Suyin laughs a little too animatedly and nearly falls over in the process. "Kari, our darling Kari, is moving to Montréal for a thrilling global adventure. You'll be here…when? Two months? Three?"

"Three." Says Hikari.

"Which means you can't avoid us anymore." Says Stéphane. "We'll have gallery exhibits and collaborations and public art projects, everything."

"I'm glad." Hikari says. Her eyes meet Takeru's. "I'll be in good company."

He can think of nothing to say in response, but Suyin, glancing between them, does.

"Have you two met before?" She asks. Even intoxicated, her facial expression shows surprising astuteness.

Kari nods, mostly to Takeru, a little grin working itself free in the corners of her mouth.

His glare melts somewhat. "Long story."

"No shit!" Stéphane looks excitedly between them. "You know each other?"

"Crazy coincidence!" says Suyin.

"Ah, Burroughs says there are no coincidences." Having said this, Stéphane laughs himself to tears. "This...this is the magical universe."

With some struggle, Suyin manages to stand on her own feet. "Okay, let's let her go. She's got a long flight ahead. Call us _first thing_. We'll pick you up from the airport, anything you need."

"And you," Stéphane grips Takeru's shoulder, "still need your celebratory drink."

"Walk Kari to her car, first." Says Suyin. It's not really a request. "Come Stéphane, it's cold."

The pair carries each other indoors, leaving Hikari and Takeru together in the cold.

She grins, "I'm parked this way."

"You tricked me."

"I did?"

They start walking through the alley, along the side of the building.

"You," he says, "are moving here, and you didn't _say anything_?"

"We haven't talked in nearly three years."

"We were just… You could have mentioned it in the course of conversation!"

"And that would have made a difference?"

She stops to face him. Here he stops also.

"I…" But having no defense, he can't continue.

"You haven't changed as much as I thought." Her voice sounds cross, but her mouth is playful. She reaches her rental car. "It doesn't change what I said, either."

She unlocks the door and climbs inside.

"Hey." He says.

She stands up. "What is it?"

He walks up and faces her, their two bodies separated by the car door.

"When you come back…" He says, "Move to Plateau."

Kari smiles. "We'll see."

"I'm not asking."

"We'll see." She insists.

He leans forward a little bit, hesitates.

"Yes?" She asks.

He starts in again, his eyes flitting between her eyes and her smiling mouth. She swoops down into the car suddenly. Exasperated, he nevertheless shuts the door in good humor.

Kari holds up three fingers, mouths something indistinguishable, and starting the car, pulls off down the single lane road, watching him in her rear view mirror, slows as she approaches the corner, and turns finally.

_Magic._

In the Magical Universe, there are no accidents and there are no coincidences. Nothing happens unless someone wills it to happen.

_Magic, she asks. Her fingers roll into his. _

_Hm?_

_She touches her thumb along his face, eyelash, brow bone, cheek. _

_Do you believe in it?_

Takeru watches her car turn around the corner, smiling faintly. "I do."

* * *

**End of Heavenly Deadly**

Notes:

_Magical Universe_

A quote from William S. Burroughs, author of _Naked Lunch_, beat writer extraordinary.

_Plateau _and_ Outremont_

Neighborhoods in Montreal, which I very recently had the pleasure of visiting. Both very nice places to live, or so I hear. Hopefully I, too, will live a fancy life there. HAHAHAHAHAAHA.

_Bauhaus_

Commie influenced, utilitarian-ish Architectural movement originating, I think, in 1920s. If you live in a city but don't know this term, you've probably seen Bauhaus style apartments and didn't know what to call it. Who says fan-fiction isn't educational?

And on that note, I am _so, _infinitely done. This story has stolen so much more life and time and energy and thought out of me than ever I realized it would when I started writing it FOUR YEARS AGO.

Thanks to everyone who stuck through for the long haul, really. Love.


End file.
